Among the Thorns
by My Beautiful Ending
Summary: "Do you have a moment, Dr. Crane?" "I have five, actually. You may have as many as you like." Will the chance meeting between Dr. Crane and Pamela Isley take root and blossom, or will it die on the harsh soil of Gotham and its tumultuous events? J/P R&R!
1. 13:1

"If I speak in the tongues of men and angles but have not love, I an only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal."

_~1 Corinthians 13:1_

Jonathan Crane was a very busy man.

Three days a week he was over at Gotham University, teaching graduate students because he wanted the use of University labs in which to conduct his research. The rest of the week, he was either at Arkham, working on his cases there and performing his duties as assistant director, or he was doing research and writing copious notes in his tiny, cramped scrawl. The only off day he had was Sunday. Growing up in the South, he had learned to respect the Sabbath Day and keep it holy, so he did no work on Sunday.

He slept all day to catch up on all the late nights of the pervious week and all the coming late nights to come. Coffee only took you so far.

Tonight he was teaching a class on psychopharmacology to grad students who didn't want to be there just as much as he did. The building's ancient AC unit had conked out on them, so all the windows were open and the fans were going full speed. Just what they needed on a hot Gotham summer evening.

Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he kept explaining a particular concept, writing important terms on the aged blackboard. The students winced each time the chalk screeched across the board but dutifully kept writing notes. Crane liked that. They showed they were committed; if they were committed, he wouldn't flunk them when the semester final rolled around.

Having shed his coat about half an hour ago, he stood there in rolled up shirtsleeves and a sweater vest, as well as navy blue pants. Most students wore t-shirts, shorts, and sandals, and they were STILL perspiring. Crane pushed his dark brown hair out of his blue eyes and off his forehead. He had grown up with this kind of heat in Georgia, but he still wasn't entirely immune to the sweltering temperature. He turned back to the class and defined some of the Latin words that had the grad students wearing identical confused expressions. A few minutes later the bell rang, and everyone sighed in relief. Even him.

"Read chapter 11 for homework and take notes," he called after them as they gathered up their books and scampered off to find somewhere cool.

The room emptied, and Jonathan brushed the chalk dust from his hands, packed his briefcase, and grabbed his coat.

"Dr. Crane," A female voice asked. "Do you have a moment?"

He looked up from the papers on his desk and up into the green eyes of a woman in a white lab coat. "I have five, actually," he said, straightening and checking his watch, "You may have as many as you like from that."

The woman, whose red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, smiled and extended a slim hand. "I don't suppose I'll need them all. I only wanted to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Pamela Isley. I was hired to teach Botany at the beginning of the semester."

He shook her hand and said politely, "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," she replied, her green eyes sparkling behind her smart glasses. "It's a requirement for new professors to go and listen to different lectures."

Oh, Lord, he remembered those days. Of course, then Dr. Arkham was still lecturing and he had to sit through hour after hour of his monotone voice, convinced he could present the subject matter better. "Yes, of course," was all he said, though.

"I enjoyed your talk," she began "But I think the students would get on better if things were put in simpler words rather than using all the Latin technical terms. That's just my personal opinion," she said hastily, "But it seems that they would get more out of the lecture that way."

"Dr. Isley, they are graduate students. It would expect them to be able to grasp Latin terms that are used in psychopharmacology constantly," he said, briskly, snapping his briefcase.

"Perhaps all their other teachers have assumed so also," Dr. Isley suggested, "and so they have never learned them."

"Then they should take the initiative and find out what _Amanita muscaria _means on their own," he replied, picking up his coat.

She seemed about to open her mouth again, but instead pursed her lips and composed herself. "I apologize," she said. "I was not inferring that your teaching skills were lacking, on the contrary, I was very impressed." She held up a slim notebook full of graceful rolling script. "I took notes. I just –I always struggled with Latin, and seeing their perplexity made me want to help." She smiled a bit. "I still do, actually. Rather stupid for someone of my major."

"Apology accepted," he said, a bit taken aback. It was not everyday that he met a woman who was strong-minded _and_ humble. "What did you major in?" he asked, trying to be polite and conversational since she just apologized very nicely. They both walked out of the building together. Her heels clicked on the cobbles.

"I majored in Botany, with a minor in toxicology," she replied with a smile. "You see how silly it is? I much prefer a plant's common name instead of the Latin one. It's more familiar, and much easier on one's tongue to say Dandelion instead of _Taraxacum officinale."  
_He said he supposed so.

* * *

Three days later, he looked up from his seat in the University coffee shop where he was grading papers to see Dr. Isley walk through the door with a pile of her own work. She ordered a latte and then walked over to him with a surprised smile on her face. "Hello Doctor Crane," she said. "I thought I was the only one who had the bright idea to grade papers here."

"I usually come later in the week to grade," he said, finally finding his tongue. "But I decided to do it earlier since I have a lot of work this week."

"And to think we might have passed each other on any number of occasions," she said, right before her order was called.

"Would you like to sit here?" he asked suddenly, indicating the other side of the table. "I can make room," he said, glancing at the stacks of paper that seemed to migrate in all directions when he was working.

"I would; thank you," she said, putting down her work and going up to the counter to retrieve her latte. Jonathan blinked as the light coming in the window lit up the copper highlights in her loose ponytail. He shook his head and tried to cut down on the clutter to give her some space.

She gracefully took a seat across from him and pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose before opening the folder and taking out a red grading pen. "I sometimes wonder what is harder," she remarked. "Being the student or the professor?"

"The professor," Jonathan replied with no hesitation.

Her laugh came again. It sounded like a bell chiming. "It certainly seems that way, doesn't it?"

For a long time there was only the sound of pens scratching on papers and coffee sipping.

Jonathan finally looked up from his papers to ask, "So why do you like to grade papers here?"

She pushed some of her hair behind her ear. "I get distracted at my house. There are always more interesting things to do than grade papers, like water my plants or sketch, or watch television. Here, I can concentrate, even if I do buy a couple lattes." She raised her green eyes to his. "What about you?"

His apartment was just a place where he kept his belongings and slept at night; a rather lonely way to live. Coming here was a way to find company. "I find it easy to shut out the bustle and work uninterrupted," was all he said, though.

Her eyes were bright and perceptive; her gaze was a little too direct. "I'm glad I ran into you, then. Sometimes interruption is good. _Carpe Diem_ and all that."

"In this case, yes," he said, allowing a smile to slip over his face.

He moved to set a stack of graded papers to the side; she was reaching for still unmarked assignments. Her hand brushed his a millisecond after he had let go of his grip on the papers. Static shock flowed between them. Her lashes lowered demurely over her eyes as she acted like nothing had happened. Jonathan did the same, but inwardly he thought, _her hand is so soft. _He wanted to hold it and find out just how soft.


	2. 13:2

"If I have the gift of prophesy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, 

and if I have a faith that can move mountains, 

but have not love, I am nothing." 

1 Corinthians 13:2

Her phone began to play her classical ringtone. Pamela Isley's green eyes strayed from the road in front of her to her purse in the passenger's seat. Thankfully, a she was almost to a red light. As she braked, she dug around in her purse before pulling out her cell phone. Flipping it open, she said, "Hello?"

"Pam! Do you want to get coffee? We could go over the results findings." Dr. Jason Woodrue's voice loud, raucous voice blared through her phone. She held it slightly away from her ear. He had a bad habit of yelling into receivers.

"That sounds good," she said noncommittally.

"Great! We can meet at the coffee shop off Harding Street."

"Okay."

He hung up without any more words. Pamela tossed her phone back into her purse and hit the gas just as the light changed. Crossing over the bridge into the Narrows, she finally realized where she was. As she tapped her thumbs against the steering wheel, it occurred to her that in three blocks she would pass Arkham Asylum. It was almost evening –near quitting time for workers. On the spur of the moment, she flipped on her turn signal and changed lanes. It was always more fun to get together with more people.

* * *

The receptionist at the doors of the Asylum directed her to the floor of Dr. Crane's office. She wondered if this was a bad idea; it was rather spur of the moment idea to invite him to coffee. Was it too forward? She smoothed her skirt over her hips as she exited the elevator. They were only acquaintances; she knew more about his work than about the man. He was an expert on the emotion of fear, and had gone into psychology and psychopharmacology to better understand the way the mind worked. However, she had no idea what his favorite television show was (assuming he had one), a favorite book, or a favorite food.

_Well, maybe this will be a get-to-know-you sort of coffee,_ she thought to herself as she walked up to his open office door. She could see him writing something in a file, with his hair in his eyes. Her mouth opened without consent from her brain and asked the question she had been wondering.

* * *

"What is your fascination with fear?" a voice asked him. Jonathan looked up from his desk at Arkham where he was going over a patient's case file. There in the doorway was Dr. Isley in a brown top and green gypsy skirt that matched her eyes. Her cheeks began to turn a light shade of pink.  
"Why do you ask?" he inquired, regaining his voice. He was curious to see her here, and wondered if she had sought him out on purpose.

"You wrote two research papers and a dissertation on the subject, and your work is centered around it," she replied, moving to sit in a chair on the other side of the desk. "What is the motivation for such an attraction?"

"Fear is the great motivator, Dr. Isley." He leaned back and observed her relaxed pose.

"Or paralyzer," she put in. "Aren't psychiatrists supposed to combat fear?"

"Of course. But fear is a very complex emotion."

"Really? I find it very simple." When he raised his eyebrows behind his glasses, she continued, "It stems from lack of understanding. If humans do not understand something, they either strive to gain understanding, or fear the strange thing. And soon, the fear turns to hate, because we hate the thing we fear because we do not understand it. Circular logic." She crossed her right leg over the other in a satisfied way.

"So you would argue that it is really fear that is the opposite of love, and not hate?" Crane inquired, leaning forward.

"No," she said, blinking. "It wasn't a converse* statement."

"Why not?"

"Well, you can hate a person, but you might not necessarily be afraid of them," she said. "It _could_ be, but it isn't always true."

"Then couldn't fear becoming hate only be sometimes true?" Jonathan countered.

She thought about this. "It would have to be a very weak-minded person or a very forgiving person who could prove me wrong. In general, say, a person who was abused as a child would be afraid of their abuser, but sooner or later would begin to hate their antagonist for making them feel fearful and weak."

He acknowledged this might be possible, and filed it away in his mind for further study.

"However, I didn't come here to debate with you," she said, biting her blower lip in an embarrassed fashion. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee with me and a colleague of mine, Dr. Jason Woodrue."

He might have said yes, but became very still when she mentioned her colleague's name. "Does he know you've invited me?" he asked.

"No," she said, a little puzzled. "Does it matter?"

"He and I …do not see eye-to-eye," Crane said. It wasn't nearly the whole tale, but he would let it go for now. It took too long to tell. "I'm afraid I must decline for now."

"I'm sorry. Care to take a rain check?" she asked, getting up. The ends of her red locks curled around her shoulders.

"Yes, please," he said, gathering his papers.

"Another time, then," she said, smiling gently and making for the door.

"Dr. Isley." She stopped and turned back at the sound of his voice. "You're right."

"About what?" She asked.

"A man could hate another man but not fear him at all." His blue eyes were level, steady.

She considered his words, and their meaning. "Thank you. Good night, Dr. Crane."

"Good night, Dr. Isley."

The door clicked softly behind her as she slipped away. He turned the pen he was holding around in his hands as he thought about this dilemma. Jason Woodrue was Dr. Isley's colleague. She obviously had no problems with him if she didn't mind having coffee with him. He felt like trying to snap his pen from some violent emotion that had suddenly overtaken him –jealousy. What was there to be jealous about, besides the fact that a man he detested was an acquaintance with a lovely young doctor that he happened to have an acquaintance with also? _Absolutely nothing_, he told himself as he filed away the patient's case until tomorrow. Absolutely nothing.

*** Converse - In geometry, a statement that is true both ways. Example: if a conditional statement is 'if **_p, _**then **_q'**,**_** then its converse is 'if**_ q,_** then**_ p.'_** Pam meant that her statement was true one way, but not true the reverse direction. This doesn't make her wrong, though.**

**Also, I am only theorizing about what would happen in the abuser situation. I don't actually know. Please don't harp on this point. It was only an example. **

**:) Reviews are welcome.**


	3. 13:3

"If I give all I possess to the poor 

and surrender my body to the flames,

but have not love, I gain nothing."

_~1 Corinthians 13:3_

Jonathan Crane walked out of the courthouse carrying his briefcase. This was the third time Carmine Falcone had 'requested' that he declare one of his bullyboys certifiably insane and admit them to Arkham Asylum. Jonathan didn't much care one way or the other. In his eyes, if you didn't take a bribe in Gotham, you were really stupid. Idealism made people look at you strangely. The looks turned to whispers and the whispers turned to dire warnings. If you didn't bend, they broke you –muggings, destruction of property, etc. At the end of the road was a swim in the river with concrete overshoes. Idealism just wasn't worth it. He would take the money and send the scum to Arkham –in his opinion, it was worse than a prison sentence. Scarier, too.

He smiled at that thought.

"Dr. Crane?" a cultured voice called.

Jonathan turned around. A tall, brown haired man with a long moustache was striding toward him. "Can I help you?" Crane asked.

"Yes, I believe you can," the man mused. "My name is Henri Ducard, and I have a proposition for you." His accent was only generic European, though his name hinted at French.

"Oh?" Crane asked noncommittally, sizing the man up. "I can't imagine what sort of proposition that would be, since I have never met you before, sir."

"True, we have never met," the man replied, his eyes keenly staring, "but I have heard quite a bit about you. You are an expert in fear. You hold most people in contempt, and you are very, very shrewd. I need a man like you in my organization."

Crane felt a small flush of pride and gratification that he was heard of past Gotham's city walls, but still replied, "Monsieur Ducard, I do have my work at Gotham University and at Arkham Asylum. I doubt that I can take on another –"

"Dr. Crane, I'm not asking you to quit your jobs; on the contrary," Ducard said, "Your occupation puts you in a very special position, a position I need."

Jonathan stayed silent. This man was intriguing, but confusing. He had a presence and a purpose about him –an aura that would even frighten Falcone, the most feared man in Gotham. "Please don't beat around the bush, Monsieur Ducard. Speak plainly."

"Psychopharmacology is a very interesting pursuit. I hear you know quite a lot about it."

"Yes, I am considered an expert in the field," Crane said, adjusting his glasses to hide the small twist to his mouth. Would this man ever shoot straight and get to the point?

"What would you say," Ducard replied, "if I told you that I knew of a plant that could cause you to see fearful hallucinations?"

"I would say congratulations, you have finally caught up with the twenty-first century and discovered marijuana," Crane said sarcastically.

"This plant is not a drug, Dr. Crane, not in the traditional sense. This is a drug that shows you your fears," Ducard whispered. "The fumes that the plant gives off when burned give the user a sense of distortion and fear."

"So inhaling the smoke is the way the drug is administered. The compound must be absorbed into the lungs," Jonathan said mostly to himself, his curiosity intensifying as he thought, _something like this could be very valuable in my research._

"Exactly." Henri Ducard smiled. "But the effects are not very long lasting or mild. Of course, I am sure a man of your talents would have no trouble at all intensifying them."

"I'm sure I could," Jonathan said, "If I knew what you were talking about."

"Panic, Dr. Crane," Ducard whispered. "Panic that would bring Gotham to its knees."

Jonathan raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Fear can move authorities to do anything," Ducard said ominously. "No one wants to see their city turned inside out by hysteria. Officials would pay huge sums of money to prevent it."

"Just what are you suggesting, sir?" Crane asked suspiciously, softly.

"I want to hold Gotham to ransom with your help."

Jonathan suddenly realized he was standing on the courthouse steps with a man who was proposing a crime of monstrous proportions. "Sir, I have no idea how these two subjects go together, why you are discussing the latter with me, and I believe I will take my leave of you." He made as if to go.

"Dr. Crane," Ducard said sharply, "Corruption has taken over every level of Gotham's infrastructure. You're a testimony to that," he added with a sly smile. "It would be quite easy enough to strengthen the toxin excreted by this flower and slip it into the water supply."

"Sir, what you are suggesting is _terrorism,"_ Crane said. He knew he should leave, but he kept standing there, listening, arguing with this man.

"The League of Shadows is not looking for political gain, Dr. Crane."

Jonathan went very still at that name. It evoked buried memories of long nights studying for ancient history exams in college. "The League of Shadows," he repeated, his blue eyes staring keenly at Ducard.

"Yes," the man replied with a knowing smile.

"Your name isn't really Henri Ducard, is it," Crane said. It was not a question; he even knew the answer.

The man had not been expecting that. He blinked and gave him a deeper, considering glance. "Very astute Dr. Crane. You may call me Ra's Al Ghul. And Ra's Al Ghul knows just exactly what sort of underhanded dealings you have with Carmine Falcone. Come now, doctor, you are a logical man. Weigh the risks against the gain: money, control, _power._ What conclusion do you come to?" He smoothed his suit.

_I conclude that Ra's Al Ghul means 'demon's head',_ Jonathan thought,_ and I conclude that I am between a rock and a hard place._ Gains balanced against consequences. What did he want?

He wanted this plant that caused fear. And to get it, he had to go along with this risky, rather asinine plan. He blinked his blue eyes and said, "What do you want me to do?"

"A very good answer, doctor. Let's go to your office and I'll explain in detail."

**:) Reviews are welcome.**


	4. 13:4

"Love is patient, love is kind. 

It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud."

_~1 Corinthians 13:4_

He stared at the spiky blue flower in annoyance. He was a psychiatrist who specialized in phobias and the affects of fear. He was versed enough in psychopharmacology to teach a class on it and prescribe medication; he was an advocate, yes, but this was not a drug. It was a plant that had chemical properties that could become a drug. And he wasn't versed enough in plants to crack its code. That was a small blow to his pride.

But he might know someone who could.

He hunted up the University telephone book, and ran his fingers down the 'I's. There she was: Isley, Pamela L. As he grabbed the phone and dialed the number, he wondered what the 'L' stood for.

"Hello?" she said, picking up the phone.

"Care to cash in that rain check, Dr. Isley?" Jonathan said, holding the phone by scrunching his shoulder up to his ear as he went to put the directory back.

"I would be delighted to, Dr. Crane." Her amusement traveled down the line. "What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing recreational, I'm afraid. I'm in the University labs, wrestling with a plant problem."

"It sounds interesting. I'll pop on by. I can be there in seven minutes."

"Thank you very much."

"My pleasure."

* * *

He resisted the urge to tap his foot or look at the clock. She would get here when she would. _Patience,_ he told himself. _It's your own fault you sounded so nonchalant on the phone._

The door of the lab clicked open, and he turned around from where he was glaring through his glasses at the little blue flower on the specimen tray. Dr. Isley smiled and shook out her wet umbrella. "Sorry. It started to rain, so I had to dig up my umbrella." She stuck it in a handy umbrella stand and struggled to remove her wet raincoat. He went to help her, easing the rubbery material off her arms and hanging it up on the coat rack. She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear, adjusting her glasses "What seems to be the problem?"

"This," he said, walking over and motioning at the plant. "It's apparently very rare, grown only in the Himalayas. It has hallucinogenic properties. However, I only have one."

Pulling on rubber gloves, she exclaimed, "I've heard of this! It's called the Ghoul's Dread flower. But I've never even seen one before," she trailed off in a whisper. "What did you intend to do with it?"

He certainly couldn't say weaponize it. "I wanted to extract the chemical for more research. It gives off the chemical if you set the fire to it –the effects are in the smoke, I believe. But I didn't really want to incinerate my only specimen."

"So the compound has to be absorbed in the lungs to take effect?" she asked, examining the leaves.

He crossed his arms. "Exactly." _She came to the exact same conclusion I did, and in about the same amount of time._ He felt rather gratified.

"Hmm…" she said. "This would be so much easier if you had more than one specimen."

"Don't I know it," he said, running his fingers through his hair. He made a mental note to kill Ra's Al Ghul later.

"Well, let's get to work," the red-haired woman said briskly.

He pulled on a pair of gloves. "After you, Dr. Isley," he said, bowing.

"Pamela," she replied with a smile. "I think we've known each other for long enough that you can call me by my Christian name."

"Well then, Pamela, I must insist you call me Jonathan." He liked the way her name tripped off his tongue.

"Jonathan, then."

* * *

It was nearly midnight and the rain had slowed to a drizzle. He was very tired but extremely satisfied.  
"We did it," Pamela crowed triumphantly.

"That we did," he smiled back. He held a bottle of an analyzed, concentrated mixture, one he had begun to call his "fear mixture" inside his head.

Pamela tossed her plastic gloves into the trashcan and smiled happily. "Well, that was fun."

"I'm sorry it wasn't the rain check you were expecting," Jonathan said as they cleaned up.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I enjoyed it. We complement each other, you know."

He paused in his movements for a moment and glanced over at her. Luckily, she wasn't looking at him when she said that. "Really?" he asked, trying to attain a normal tone of voice.

"Yes," she replied as she shrugged into her raincoat. "I know about the plant properties, and you know about chemical drugs, and both were wrapped into this particular plant."

"Ah," he said, taking his glasses off. He had gotten a slight headache from working so hard. Jon was a little disappointed at her answer. He didn't really know why, except that in his mind, she really should have phrased her sentence thus: 'our skills complement each other,' instead of '_we_ complement each other'. There were different implications to the words.

"Thank you for coming, Pamela," he said as she gathered her long red hair out from under the collar of her raincoat.

"Thank you for asking me," Pamela said, smiling. "I enjoy a challenge." She reached out for the umbrella he held, but he caught her soft hand in his the way he had been wanting to and bowed over it. Then he handed her the umbrella. As color entered her cheeks, her lips parted with another smile and she walked out into the drizzle with which Gotham seemed to enjoy afflicting its inhabitants. Jonathan watched her go, thinking. _I enjoy a challenge, too._

**:) Reviews are welcome.**


	5. 13:5

**AN: Just a note: the first two chaps occurred in August. Three and four were in September. This one is October. IDK when things happened in the movie, but I'm messing with it just because I can :)**

"It is not rude, 

it is not self-seeking, 

it is not easily angered, 

it keeps no record of wrongs."

_1 Corinthians 13:5_

Jonathan Crane walked to the basement elevator in Arkham and inserted his key to take him back up to the regular levels. Everything was going smoothly. Ducard, or Ra's Al Ghul, or whatever he wanted to call himself, was sending in mass amounts of the drugs with Falcone's drug shipments, and Crane was using the guards he knew were on Falcone's payroll to take care of the dumping and managing the patients who had been recruited to manufacture the compound. Ironically, some of the patients were the men he had sent away for "mental insanity."

As the elevator inched back up to the floor his office was located on, he fingered his briefcase, which contained a small aerosol bottle full of the toxin. Today, he should probably test it to see if what he had been dumping into the water supply for a few days was actually working. The elevator doors opened onto his office floor, and he walked briskly to his office. Once inside, he locked the door.

He took his glasses off and tucked them into the neck of his sweater vest before reaching down into the bottom left drawer of his desk. He pulled out a small respirator and a brown burlap sack. The former he placed on his desk; the latter he turned around in his hands, thinking.

_What do I fear?_

_A better question: what is the scariest thing I can think of?_

Everyone feared death, some with more antipathy than others. What did death look like? Violence? Blood? Corpses? Dead things attracted scavengers. Vultures. Coyotes. Carrion crows.

Crows. Black, harsh, acerbic, irritating birds that fed on the dead flesh of others, as well as crops of farmers and the food of others.

What kept them away?

Scarecrows.

_Scare_-crows.

Those were scary in themselves.

He smiled and pulled out a needle and thread that he kept in his desk in case he ever lost buttons off his clothes, along with a pair of scissors.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, he had a rough mask with holes for eyes, a frowning, sinister mouth, and a firmly affixed respirator on the inside of the mask. Stowing it in his briefcase with the aerosol canister, he walked quickly and quietly to the cell of the most feared man in the Asylum –a six foot eight man with the muscles of a bodybuilding wrestler with tattoos and battle scars and an unstable, violent mind. He was called Solomon Grundy.

Always restrained, all he could to was curse and glare when Crane walked through the door. Purposefully setting his brief case on the table and opening it toward him self, Crane asked, "Tell me, Mister Grundy, what do you fear?"

He only received a string of curses, along with "Solomon Grundy born on a Monday". It was the usual response when dealing with this man.

"I'm congratulating you, Mr. Grundy," Crane said as he took out his burlap mask. "You're my first test subject. I would say something about what a great honor this is, but you obviously don't care." Swiftly donning the burlap mask and making sure the respirator sealed his mouth and nose, Crane depressed the actuator on the can, spraying a fine white gas into the air.

Immediately, Grundy began to cough and choke, eyes widening as his heart began to pump faster from adrenaline.

**"Let's try this again, shall we?"** he said, his voice distorted by the respirator. **"What do you fear?"** his voice growled out the words. He could only imagine what it would sound like to a fear-crazed person.

The man began to scream and stutter, "Ahhhh! Sc-sc-scare –scare-c-c-crow, _scarecrow_!"

Under the mask, he smiled. **"That's right. Don't ever forget it."** He slipped out the door and closed it behind him before pulling off the mask, since he didn't know how far the gas dispersed. He walked quickly in the opposite direction as orderlies who heard the screaming dashed toward the door. He stepped into the stairwell and smirked at the mask he fingered in his hands. "Well, it works," he said in a very satisfied, smug voice.

**That it does.**

Jonathan blinked.

* * *

**Hello, Jonny.**

Jonathan didn't react. He was getting used to the voice. He wasn't sure if he was talking to himself, if it was a figment of his imagination, or what. He had ruled out MPD and DID with certainty. He wasn't a Jekyll and Hyde.

**Keep tellin' yourself that.**

Jonathan kept looking over the brief he would have to present in court that week.

**Hey, doc. Have ya ever considered that I keep talking because you won't talk back?**

_Talking back would only encourage you._

Jon got the impression of deep amusement and chuckles.** And yet ya just did, Jonny-boy. Okay, progress. We're on speaking terms now.**

_I'm not on speaking terms with my imagination._

**I'm not your imagination.**

_My conscience, then._

**HA! Hardly.** A deep feeling of dark laughter came with the words.

_Fine. What are you?_ Jon asked as he closed the folder and slipped it into his briefcase.

**I'm a who.**

_From Whoville?_ Jon thought sarcastically as he grabbed his coat and walked out of his office. _You sound more like the Grinch._

**No, stupid. I'm a person. I'm you.**

_So you are my imagination._ Jon stepped into the elevator.

Another feeling came, this time of eye rolling. **_No._ I'm you, Jonny-boy. But if that gives you too much of a headache to think about, let me put it this way. I'm also the person who lives in the bottom drawer of your desk. More accurately, the false bottom of the bottom drawer.**

Jonathan froze. The only sound was the Arkham elevator pinging as it passed floors on its way to the ground level. He knew exactly what was in the false bottom –two cans, one of fear toxin and the other of its antidote –and his burlap mask.

**Exactly,** Scarecrow murmured in a satisfied tone.

* * *

_Three days later_

Jonathan leaned toward the microphone on the stand and said, "In my opinion, Mr. Zsaz is as much a danger to himself as to others and prison is probably not the best environment for his rehabilitation." He could feel the eyes of the assistant DA on him, glaring from anger. She wanted the man put in jail. He wanted Falcone to keep bringing his drugs in. They were at an impasse. She should know nothing was fair in Gotham by now.

After the trial, he could hear her clicking along behind him in high heels, calling his name. "Dr. Crane!"

**Hey Jonny. The $*#%& wants to talk to you.**

He sighed in irritation and schooled his face into a mask. "Ah, Miss Dawes," he said calmly as she fell into step beside him.

"You think a man who butchers people for the mob doesn't belong in jail?" she asked, her stubborn chin jutting out of her face.

"I would hardly have testified to that otherwise, would I Miss Dawes?" he asked, his lips pursing. He knew his blue eyes were beginning to glare. He didn't really need this right now. Stress seemed to push down on all sides, and all his frustration stemmed from the fact that Pamela was gone on a research trip to Egypt and wouldn't be back for another couple days. He missed her badly. They had become good friends, though they didn't talk about lots of things besides work, sometimes theorizing about life over coffee.

**I like redheads.**

_No._

**I could –**

_No!_ _I told you your boundaries. The patients are yours. Pamela is mine._

Scarecrow was irritated.** Humph. Killjoy.**

Rachel Dawes interrupted his thoughts, walking in front of him and halting his progress. "This is the third of Falcone's thugs you've had declared insane and moved into your asylum."

**More than three, girly.** Scarecrow laughed derisively.

_Shut up and let me think. _ "The work offered by organized crime must have an attraction to the insane," he almost snapped out. He walked away from her, before something Scarecrow thought came out of his mouth.

"Or the corrupt." Her voice carried after him, damning in its accusation.

_Everyone in Gotham is corrupt,_ he thought, his inward tone scalding. _Except, perhaps, you. _He stopped walked and glanced across the hall, spying her boss. He cast his voice to project. "Mr. Finch." The man turned around. "You should check with _Miss Dawes_ here just what implications your office has authorized her to make." He raised an eyebrow. "If any." And with that, he walked away.

:) Reviews are welcome.


	6. 13:6

"Love does not delight in evil 

but rejoices with the truth."

_1 Corinthians 13:6_

**Remind me why we're here again, Jonny-boy.**

_It's getting too risky to send Falcone's men to Arkham _and_ still dump the drugs into the water supply. And I wish you wouldn't call me that. _

**I like to see you uncomfortable, Jonny-boy.**

_I noticed._

The bodyguards let him in past the door. Crane sat down in front of Falcone and got right to the point. "No more favors. Someone is sniffing around." His blue eyes were hard.

Falcone sneered. "Hey, I scratch your back, you scratch mine, doc. I'm bringing in the shipments."

Crane frowned slightly. "We are paying you for that."

**Through the nose, too, if I know Falcone.**

_Shut it._

"Maybe money isn't as interesting to me as favors." His lip curled.

This guy thought he was immune because he had half of Gotham bought and paid for. Well, he couldn't boss him around. Not anymore. Jon made a decision and took his glasses off. "I am more than aware that you are not intimidated by me, Mr. Falcone…"

**I wish he were. He might not be such a smart *#$ then.**

_I thought I told you to shut it…. but I do agree with you this one time._

_"…_But you know who I'm working for, and when he gets here..."

"He... He's coming to Gotham?" A surprised and slightly anxious look appeared on the mob boss's face.

"Yes, he is." Crane smiled slightly at the way his words affected the man. "And when he gets here, he's not going to want to hear that you've endangered our operation just to get your _thugs_ out of a little jail time."

Falcone considered. "Who's bothering you?" He finally asked.

"There's a girl at the DA's office."

"We'll buy her off," he shrugged.

"Not this one." Crane shook his head. Rachel Dawes was someone that kept to the straight and narrow. Stupid girl.

"Oh. Idealist, huh?" he rolled his eyes. "Well, there's an answer to that too."

"I don't want to know."

"Yes, you do," Falcone said with a knowing glance.

**_I_ do,** Scarecrow said. **I wanna know what's gonna happen to her. So keep listening, Jonny-boy. **And without further ado, Scarecrow took control, leaving Jonathan ranting inside his head.

* * *

Two days later, the phone in Jon's apartment rang. It was a Sunday, so he was at home, and he was asleep. Pinching his nose and fumbling for his glasses, Jon picked up the phone. "Hello?" he mumbled, finally finding his glasses. His blue eyes focused on the far wall of his bedroom.

"Jonathan?"

He ran a hand through his dark hair in surprise. "Pamela? Are you back from Egypt?"

"Yes –well, no…sort of. That's kind of what I'm calling about." Her usually calm and composed voice sounded flustered and upset on the phone. "I'm on the plane. We're about half an hour from the Gotham airport, and I was wondering if you'd come pick me up."

He kept the phone close to his ear as he hunted for clothes. "Didn't you drive your own car?" A long silence followed. He frowned and asked, "Pam, are you still there?"

Her sigh echoed down the line. "Yes, I'm here. I, um…I rode to the airport with Dr. Woodrue and a colleague of his, and I don't want to ride back with them."

He knew there was a much bigger story behind it –he could hear it in her words. "I'll be there," he assured her.

"Thank you," she whispered, relieved.

"Pam?"

"Yes?"

"Don't they tell you not to make calls when you're in the air?"

Her voice was rather embarrassed. "…I'm in the lavatory."

He laughed, and to his great reassurance, she did too.

After he hung up, he realized, Scarecrow had been silent the whole time. It was a pleasant surprise.

* * *

Jonathan waited in the crowded airport terminal, watching the passengers disembark from the airplane. He leaned against a pillar in casual dress for once –jeans and a wrinkled blue long-sleeved shirt. So far, he had seen no one with a head of red locks. But this was definitely the right terminal.

A minute later, he spotted her.

She had a very nice tan that made the freckles on her face stand out. Her outfit of jeans and a t-shirt spoke of coming from a hot climate into a cool autumn. She looked around with an anxious expression, searching for someone. Her fingers worried with the strap on her sling bag.

**She's hot. I like her,** Scarecrow said in a lascivious tone.

_Mine._ Jon pushed himself off the column and walked toward her. When their eyes met, her relief was palpable. She dashed across the room and gave him a huge hug, and as surprised as he was, he was still able to wrap his arms around her so they both didn't tip over. She pulled back first with a look of abject embarrassment on her face.

He smiled to ease her discomfort. "I guess you're glad to be back."

"Yes," she said.

"Crane!" A man with flashing spectacles, rumpled clothes, and an unkempt beard walked up to them. "What the devil are you doing here?"

**What a *$&#$%*.**

_You have no idea._

Taking a silent breath, Jonathan let all emotion drop from his face. However, he kept his grip on Pamela's hand. "I am picking up Pamela, Jason," he said, in a voice that contained hidden venom.

"There isn't any need. She rode up with us." A tall, handsome man who needed a shave walked up with a pack slung across his back.

Jon felt Pamela's hand clench around his. "And she's riding back with me," Jon said evenly, though Scarecrow felt otherwise.

**Let me out. I can deal with them, **Scarecrow said eagerly.

_There are better ways to handle this._

**You got any ideas?**

_Other than remind Jason that I know exactly whom he cheated off of for every exam he ever took?_

**That's a no, Jonny-boy. We'll do it my way.**

_Pamela is off limits, _Jon reminded him as Scarecrow came to the forefront. He reached in his pocket and handed Pamela his car keys. "Why don't you go to the car? I'll grab your bag and meet you there."

She nodded, letting a ghost of a smile grace her lips as she handed him her baggage claim ticket. "Goodbye Dr. Woodrue, Dr. LeGrande." All three men watched her walk away from them.

Scarecrow focused on Jason Woodrue, the man that Jon detested. He could certainly see why. His whole posture screamed boastful, conceited, blustering fool. He always had a wild gleam in his eyes hidden behind his coke bottle glasses. Jon had never been afraid of him, and never would be afraid of him. He hated him, plain and simple. Yes, some of it was the green monster of jealousy; Jason had a personality that stood out, while Jon tended to blend in. But they had never been friends. Jon had figured out that he was not someone to keep around the first day in Freshmen Biology, watching him copy the copious notes of a brainier student next to him. Once a cheater, always a cheater. He had no right at all to the grants the University gave him. But Jon couldn't imagine what had Pamela so worked up.

"I don't believe you've met my colleague from Seattle," Jason finally said, introducing the tall man. "Dr. Marc LeGrande, Dr. Jonathan Crane."

Scarecrow nodded and smirked. Anyone who liked that man must be a scumbag too.

"A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Crane," LeGrande said.

"The pleasure is all yours," Scarecrow snapped. He could feel Jon doing a mental face palm. He ignored it. "As much as I'd _love_ to stay and chat, I must be going, gentlemen." He began to turn. "Oh, and Jason?" he added as an after thought. "Stay away from Doctor Isley."

"When did it become your job to screen her coworkers?" Woodrue demanded, ruffling up.

"Since they degraded to such a horrible quality." He walked out of the terminal and down to the baggage claim area.

_I could have done better than _that,_ you know,_ Jon said sarcastically.

**Shut up, Jonny-boy.**

_Okay. You told Jason off. Now give me my body back._

**Why can't I be in control for a little while longer?** Scarecrow demanded.

_We've been through all that. Let go. Now._ Grumbling, Scarecrow receded and Jonathan took over.

**One of these days you're not going to be able to pull me back,** Scarecrow warned.

_I'll worry about that day when it comes, thank you very much,_ Jon said as he scanned for her bag.

**I always get what I want. It's how I am.**

_Have you ever considered that's how I am too? _

**Humph,** Scarecrow mumbled, disgruntled. He hadn't.

* * *

Pamela was waiting for him at his car. "Thank you," she said as he heaved her heavy suitcase into the trunk.  
"It's nothing," he said as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Don't worry about it."

"I woke you up on the one day you sleep in. That's not nothing," she said wryly.

"I'd rather spend it with you than sleeping," he told her. She laughed, bells ringing out again. "How was Egypt?" he asked her as he turned onto the highway.

"Oh, good."

Jon glanced at her. When she talked about work she could go on and on, regaling him with anecdotes of her day and breakthroughs she'd come across. Monosyllabic answers just weren't Pamela. "That's it?" he asked.

"It was hot. I got a nice tan," she offered, displaying her darkened arms. "The labs were impressive…" she trailed off, her gaze distant and pinched.

"Pamela? Did something happen?" Her gaze dropped to her lap, staying silent.

**This doesn't sound good.**

_Really?_ Jon thought sarcastically._ Why do you always state the obvious? _ "Pamela, does it have something to do with why you asked me to pick you up?"

The redheaded woman took a deep breath and schooled her features. "I suppose I can tell you." Her tone was factual, clipped. "Egypt was beautiful. We researched plants, tested different strains and hybrids, wrote notes… it was lovely. Jason and Marc always would stay later at the labs then I did, but I didn't think anything of it. We're all scientists; we get involved in our work…" she sighed. Jon kept one eye on traffic and the other on her as she fiddled with the strap on her sling bag. "Well, I realized I had left something at the lab one night, and I went back to get it. I…overheard…"

**Pam is an eavesdropper? Ha ha. Never would have pegged her for it.**

_Shut. Up._

Pamela kept talking. "I overheard them discussing how to take a rare plant sample through customs that the Egyptian government wouldn't let through. Jon, I think they smuggled it back!" she said in a heated voice.

"Why do you think they did it?" he asked, thinking about his own dealings with smuggling.

"I don't know. I don't even know that they did it, really. I just heard them discussing it," Pamela said, her face wrinkling into a frown.

"And that's why you asked me to come pick you up? Because you didn't want to ride with potential criminals?" Jon asked. This put him on the level of _Jason._ What an awful thought.

**She'll never like you if she finds out what you've been doing with the toxin. Never,** Scarecrow growled.** She's that kind of prissy girl.**

_You don't know that!_ Jon thought desperately.

But what Pam said next made those thoughts fly straight out of his head. "No, that's not it."

**It's not?**

_It's not?_

"It's nothing important, really," she said as she tried to shrug it off. "The night before we left we went to a bar. It was a strange night," she reflected. "The long and short of it is Marc propositioned me. He was drunk," she hurried on. "It was stupid, he didn't mean it, and I turned him down and went back to my hotel room."

"And that's it?" Jon asked. Scarecrow was seething inside of him, and it was carrying over into his expression.

"That's it," she said.

He sighed and relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. "You let me know if they try anything else, and I'll take care of it."

She smiled. "That's sweet, but I'm sure nothing will come of it. How are your cases going?" she asked, switching the topic to a lighter subject.

Jonathan didn't resist the switch, but vowed to keep his eyes open from now on. Something that 'was nothing' wouldn't make her nervous enough to call him to come pick her up. He knew her well enough to know she could handle herself in situations like that. There was something else under the surface, but he didn't know what. She wasn't lying; he knew that. Pamela wasn't the type to lie. But it might not be the entire story.

* * *

Pam waved goodbye as Jonathan drove away from her house. Unlocking her door, she swept her red hair off her shoulders as she called to her house, "Hello, babies. Mommy's home."

Leaving her suitcase by the door, she walked through her living room, once again reminded of why she loved her house. It was so…_cozy._ The warm wood floors made her colorful rugs feel right at home. Winter sunshine flowed into the rooms through rose patterned curtains that draped the windows. Collapsing on her comfortable couch, she closed her eyes and sighed, wrapping herself in the fuzzy blankets that were slung over the back. She had missed this place.

The bell she had hung on her back door rang as it opened. She smiled without opening her eyes. "Hey Harley," she said.

"Hey Pam! How was Egypt?" the blond asked her. Harleen Quinzel lived next door. She was going to Gotham University to get her doctorate degree in psychology, and she was almost done. Ever since she had moved in next door, they had been close friends. Pamela had gotten her to plant-sit while she was away.

Pam opened her eyes and sat up. "It was fine. I got a tan," Pam said, shying away from that subject she had gone over just recently with Jon. "How were my babies?"

"Just fine. I gave them water and plant food, and rotated them around so they'd get sunlight." Harley watched Pam as she brushed the leaves of her moth orchid.

"Did you use the mister for the angel ivy?" she asked, glancing at Harley.

"Yes. I followed your instructions to the letter. You know, it's a little strange that you call them babies. I think I need to get you a cat or something."

"Harley, a cat might dig in the potting soil," Pam protested. "Or it might try to take a bite of my poinsettias or amaryllis and get sick!"

Harley rolled her eyes. "Hey, at least it would be flesh and blood. Do you need anything else?"

"I'm fine; thanks."

"Okay, Pam. Oh yeah, here's your mail. I picked it up for you," she said as she dumped a basket into a chair. "Bye," Harley said before exiting the way she came.

Pam shook her head with a small smile on her face. "Bye, Harl," she called before the door closed completely.

She decided to get the ordeal over with and sort her mail. In her mind, that meant toss everything that wasn't a bill or personal. Simple, except for the fact that the stack was _deep._ Bill, bill, coupon, junk, junk, junk, magazine, bill, junk…. Pamela paused over a fancy envelope with her name printed in cursive on the front. She turned the envelope over and opened it. She read the thick, expensive card. "_You are cordially invited…"_

She almost burst out laughing. She had gotten an invitation to Bruce Wayne's birthday party! She wondered how on earth that had happened. True, she had interned at Wayne Enterprises for a year while getting her doctorate degree, working in the biochemist division of the applied sciences department. Now she worked at Gotham University and it was a known fact that influential people in the community were invited to private parties of the wealthy in Gotham. She just had never thought of a college professor who once had a job in a large company as an influential or important person! Although it would be a fun thing to go to… she hadn't bought a new dress in a long time. Pamela got up and stuck the card into her agenda before writing the date onto her calendar beside her potted amaryllis.

Pamela stroked a petal absently, her mood returning to melancholy remembrance. She took hold of her suitcase and carried it up her wooden stairs that lead to the second floor and into her bedroom. She began to unpack, throwing dirty clothes into a pile and hanging up clean items in her walk in closet. It was mindless activity, and because of that, she kept returning to the fact that she would much rather forget; she hadn't told Jon everything about that night. After she had come back to the hotel, Marc had banged on her door, demanding entrance. The door was locked with the chain firmly in place; she knew that in her head, but it had scared her. Finally, she called hotel security, and they had escorted him back to his room. She couldn't sleep that night, just kept staring at the door like somehow the lock would open on its own.

Taking a deep breath, she went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She was a strong woman; she was in control! She even knew self-defense. She could take care of herself. And like she had told Jon, it was nothing. He had been drunk; if sober, he would never think of or do such a thing, ever. She was worrying over nothing. Right?

Right…

* * *

**AN: just a couple of notes here. I have had 436 hits on this story, and 3 reviews. Let's think about this for a second. **

**C'mon, I KNOW people are reading this. I don't want to be a review beggar, but do you like this story, at all? If I stopped updating, would you be sad? Not that I will, just...would you? I've gotten some favorites and alerts, and I thank y'all SO much, but I want to know if you like this story! Time to step up, y'all!  
**


	7. 13:7

**Since I am going on a trip and will not be back until next Monday, and since I am one year older, here is the next chapter :)**

"It always protects, always trusts,

always hopes, always perseveres."

_~ 1 Corinthians 13:7_

_{A week later}_

Pamela heard the door to the adjoining lab close and lock. Her green eyes strayed from the microscope in her hands to stare at the now-closed door. Marc was working in that lab tonight. Jason had excused himself to go get a bite to eat a few minutes ago. And now the adjoining door was locked.

Suspicious.

Her intuition told her one shady act on top of another couldn't mean any good. Glancing back down at the microscope, she pursed her lips and nodded, reaching a decision. Pam gathered her vermillion locks out of her face and shrugged out of her rustling white lab coat. Slipping out of her high heels, she left them on the floor and slivered slightly as the cold tile made contact with the soles of her feet. Tiptoeing silently over to the locked door, she crouched down and pressed her ear to the doorframe, rubbing her hands on her jeans.

_I'm not eavesdropping. Well, yes I am, but it's for a purpose. They could have committed a felony. I need to know._ Pam quieted her heart and listened. For the longest time, all she could hear was the sound of beakers bubbling and people moving around. Then someone started talking.

"It's nearly ready."

Pamela frowned. Jason had not gone to eat; that was his voice. She had been right.

"What did you add into the bonding agent?" Marc's voice asked.

"Datura stramonium, Toxicodendron radicans, and compound X07," Jason replied.

"And in the oral substance?"

"Digitalis purpurea, Atropa Belladonna, and the herbs we brought back from Egypt."

"…Isn't compound X07 illegal?"

"So are the herbs you brought over," Jason replied with a cackle.

Pam's ears were beginning to burn from what she was hearing. What on earth where they making? She pressed her ear closer to the door, listening intently for any clues at all.

"We haven't actually done any preliminary testing. Theory only goes so far. Do you think –"

"It'll be fine," Jason said reassuringly.

"You're acting very nonchalant about this. Changing someone's chemical makeup and DNA structure isn't a walk in the park."

"No, it's more like the Indy 500 in the park," Dr. Woodrue laughed. "But if this potion works, we'll be able to make super soldiers. They'll be vulnerable to nothing and toxic to everything!"  
"If the potion doesn't kill them first."  
"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport. This translates into dollar signs when we sell the finished product to the highest bidder."

Her whole body had gone cold with shock and fear. _Good grief… do they really mean it? How can they do this? _Lifting a shaking hand to her mouth, she started to back up, keeping her eyes fixed on the door.

"Turn the fire down," Marc said. "It's done."

"What now?" she heard faintly.

"We'll just have to test it, won't we?"

Pamela backed into a table, jostling some test tubes. They rattled in their case and she jumped away, her heart leaping into a frantic staccato tempo. _Would they have heard that? Do they know I'm over here?_ She dashed across the room in her bare feet to scoop up her heels, discarded on the floor where she had left them. Shoving them into her sling bag, she lifted the strap over her head and ran for the door, trying not to make any more noise. Carefully, she slipped out the door and slowly let the latch click into the door frame. She sighed in relief and her hands dropped to her sides.

Turning around, she ran straight into a person.

A gasp escaped her mouth as she jumped and brought a hand to her thumping heart. It was Marc. "Oh, Dr. LeGrande," she said, laughing a little, "you startled me." She tried to pretend like everything was fine, like she hadn't been eavesdropping on their conversation.

He glanced at her bag and then at her bare feet. "Going somewhere, Dr. Isley?"

"Yes, home. My feet were killing me," she said lamely, "so I took my shoes off." She winced inwardly. It had been drummed into her as a child that lying was wrong; she found it was very hard to tell lies now.

"Really?" Marc said, blocking her path and crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you were going to keep working this evening."

"Well, Jason went home, and so …I thought work would keep until tomorrow," Pam said, trying to sound convincing. Her brain wouldn't function; she was beginning to panic inside. Clenching her fist behind her back, she willed herself to be calm. "Excuse me, Dr. LeGrande." She tried to go around him.

His arm shot out, blocking her path. "Dr. Isley, a liar should have the decency to lie well."

She stared at him, knowing her face was paling. _Well, there's nothing for it but to try one last shot. _"I don't know what you're talking about," she said boldly, thrusting her chin out and trying to leave.

"The key to good eavesdropping is not getting caught, and frankly, Dr. Isley, you are not a good eavesdropper." Roughly seizing her arms, the man began to pull her toward the lab in which he and Dr. Woodrue were working. "But you should be able to see what you overheard in action, don't you think?"

She struggled against him, trying to free herself from his powerful grip. "Let me go, Dr. LeGrande! This instant!" she demanded, trying to sound strong and angry, when in reality she was scared and frightened. She attempted to go for his eyes with her nails, but he twisted her arms painfully behind her.

"I think not," he said as he pushed her in the doorway. She fell to the hard tile floor and winced, knowing a bruise would form.

Dr. Woodrue looked up from where he was siphoning off an emerald green substance in a beaker. "Ah, Dr. Isley! What a wonderful surprise! Now we have a test subject!"

"Exactly what I was thinking," Marc said.

"Whatever it is you're doing, you'll never get away with it," Pamela said, standing and dusting herself off. "And don't think I won't report you to the University, either!"

"Oh, my dear doctor, you won't. You see, if this works, you'll be thanking us," Jason said, prepping a syringe. "And if it doesn't, well." He shrugged. "You'll be dead."

_He means it. He'd kill me without a second thought. Both of them would!_ She thought frantically. She made a desperate lunge for the door, but Dr. LeGrande intercepted her and threw her into a chair so violently that it almost tipped over because of the force. Shrieking reflexively, she writhed and kicked as Dr. LeGrande restrained her. However, when Dr. Woodrue grabbed her elbow and pointed the syringe at her upper arm muscle, she froze, not daring to move. She hated needles, and cringed at the feeling of the point entering her skin and pushing through to her muscle. Clenching her teeth, she refused to let the whimper that was begging to escape out of her body. She hoped very much she wouldn't throw up.

Finally, the hypodermic needle left her skin and she shuddered in relief. "What are you doing to me?" she whispered, feeling the drug in her muscle.

"Oh, don't be afraid, Dr. Isley," LeGrande said as Dr. Woodrue approached swirling the contents of a test tube around. "You won't feel a thing."

"A liar should have the decency to lie well," she hissed, throwing his words back at him.

"Oh, ouch," Dr. Woodrue said. "She's getting a sting already! Open her mouth," he said, sobering.

"I'll bite you! I will!" she said as Marc's hand neared her mouth. Sure enough…

"Ow!" LeGrande yelled, shaking his hand.

Pamela spit out the taste and glared. "Told you so."

"Hold her down, Marc. I'll take care of it."

Pamela clamped her mouth firmly shut, glaring. But her vision didn't look quite right. It was…fuzzy. Woodrue sighed, reached over, and pinched her nose shut. She tried to shake his grip, but it wasn't working; she didn't have enough room to maneuver with Marc holding her down in this chair. Slowly, her lungs began to ache, and then to scream. Carbon dioxide was building up, and she desperately needed oxygen. She blinked away sudden tears of panic. She had to breathe!

She gave in and opened her mouth, exhaling and breathing in the sweet air as her nose was freed as well. A second later a test tube was shoved into her mouth and upended; a hand was clamped tightly over her jaw to make sure she didn't spit the substance out. Pamela made a face; this tasted horrible!

"Swallow, doctor," Woodrue cajoled, pinching her nose shut once again. There was that feeling of panic again, the feeling of being deprived of air. She had to swallow this bile substance! In her attempt to get the stuff down her throat, a trickle of liquid entered her windpipe and she nearly choked. Somehow, some way, she got all of the liquid into her stomach, and they let her mouth and nose go. She bent over, coughing and hacking to clear her airway. They had stepped away from her, but she could feel their eyes on her, watching to make sure she didn't try to make herself throw up. Still coughing long after her throat was clear, she thought, _I'll only have one chance at this; I have to make it work!_ She took a deep breath and shoved her chair backwards, flying over it into a gymnastics move Harley had taught her. Their outcries almost made her laugh. Her red hair was in her eyes, but she didn't care. Regaining her footing, she dashed to the lab table and grabbed the beaker of their substance. Both men froze.

"Put that down, doctor, you don't know what you're doing!"

"Give it to me, Pamela, we can talk about this…"

"Move away from the door," she commanded as her vision warped for a second. She gripped the table to steady herself. "Move, or I drop it!"

They edged away from the door, eyes on the beaker she held. Her bare feet crossed the tile to scoop up her bag before walking to the door. Just before she reached it, Marc lunged at her and tried to wrestle away the beaker from her. Jabbing him in the nose with her elbow, she tried to throw the beaker at the wall.

She missed. It crashed onto a lab table and shattered, spilling the substance everywhere, including into the flame of a Bunsen burner. Instantly, flames shot up all over the lab table, and quickly found fodder in the sheaf of papers located on the chair beside it. The men screamed at her and at each other, not able to decide whether to salvage what they could or chase her. While they ran around like chickens with their heads cut off, she escaped.

The potions were affecting her. She could feel her vision changing as she careened into walls, trying to reach the dark University parking lot. Her car seemed so far away; even though she knew rationally it was merely two rows away. _My depth perception is being messed with,_ she thought distantly. Running, staggering, reeling towards her car, she could barely keep her balance. She prayed, begging God that she would be able to drive as her fumbling fingers dropped her keys twice when she tried to insert the right one into the lock. Her motor functions and muscle control were going as well. Finally, her fingers managed to stop shaking long enough to turn the key in the lock. She fell into the drivers seat and shut the door, feeling her heart pound as the chemicals took effect and dropping her purse into the passenger's seat. Once the key was in the ignition, she desperately tried to control her limbs enough to drive away. Out on the highway, she stared vainly at the road ahead of her, trying to figure out what was real and what was illusion. _Am I technically driving under the influence? _She wondered giddily to herself. _Please God, let me reach my house without crashing!_ She only lived seven minutes away.

The agonizing minutes ticked away as she somehow miraculously survived the ride to her house without crashing. She pulled into her driveway and turned the motor off, nearly falling out the door as she opened it. Her hands couldn't stop shaking; Pamela inherently knew she wouldn't be able to manage a key anymore. She tottered through her backyard gate, frantically trying to stay upright on legs that, in a few more minutes, would refuse to bear her weight.  
Pam's weight shoved her backdoor open, and she fell on the rug inside the door. The wind whooshed out of her at the impact of hitting the floor, and she nearly banged her forehead. She lay there for a second, feeling her muscles twitch and spasm independently. _What did they do to me?_ She whimpered inwardly as she tried to gather enough strength to crawl over to her telephone. She grabbed the portable handset and collapsed back on the unyielding wood floor. Her stomach rolled as she hit speed dial one. _O Lord, please not nausea. _She could hear the ring, a lonely, distant sound. "Please pick up, Harley," she whispered.

"_Hey, this is Harley Quinzel! I'm not here, probably at work or a class, so please leave your name and number after the beep…"_

Pamela moaned and tried to brush her now-sweaty, damp red hair off her forehead. Swallowing down the bile even though she knew she should vomit to expel the poison, she hit speed dial number two. _Please pick up, please…_

_

* * *

_

Jonathan Crane was watching the evening news while eating an apple. He had taken care of all his case files for the day, but he was uneasy. The news reporter had shown footage of Carmine Falcone, major crime lord, strapped to a spotlight. The police had confiscated the shipment Falcone's men were bringing in. He was worried about that. If they realized that half the drugs they had in their possession were not the usual heroin and cocaine, they might start analyzing the compound. It was unlikely that they would put two and two together since Gotham cops had dubious morals, at best, but still. The talk of this 'Bat' the mob members had run into down at the docks had him on edge. If grown men were seriously talking about being thrashed by a giant bat, they were either telling the truth or hallucinating. No one would make up a story that unbelievable. And they weren't hallucinating; he hadn't been down to the docks…unless Scarecrow had taken a little joy ride without his knowledge.

**It wasn't me, Jonny,** Scarecrow muttered, disgruntled.

He was about halfway through the apple before the newswoman said_, "We have an important announcement. There is a fire in the Gotham University labs. Firefighters are en route. No information on how this fire started is known at this time."_ They began to roll some footage of the fire. Jon leaned forward to stare at the television. The location where the flames flew out of the windows looked almost like–

His thought was interrupted by the sound of his ringing phone. Grabbing the remote and muting the TV, he pressed the talk button on the receiver. "Hello?"

"Jon?" a female voice asked with a panicky tone.

He frowned. "Pamela?"

She moaned and said in a strained voice, "Jon, they did something… injected me; oh please… I can't even walk anymore –"

"Pamela, calm down," he said. "Talk to me. What's going on?" He was alarmed by her disjointed and incoherent speech. All thoughts of Falcone and the shipments flew from his mind.

"Jason and Marc." Her voice was very small. "They put something in me –said if it didn't work I would die…"

"Put what in you?" he asked. He was already moving, grabbing his coat and shoving his feet into his shoes. "Pam, _think._"

"Toxins… some concoction of plants and the herbs they smuggled from Egypt –they _did_ smuggle them, Jon…"

"Where are you?" he said as he grabbed his car keys.

"My house," she whispered.

"Hold on. I'll be there before you know it. Try to remember, Pam." He tossed the phone down and dashed out the door.

As he put his car into gear, Scarecrow erupted into some of the foulest oaths he had ever heard.

Jon said, "I agree."

* * *

Her car door was open. Jon quickly glanced in, grabbed her purse and the keys from the ignition, and shut the door. The front door was locked. He jiggled the lock and then went around to the back. It was standing open also, enough that he could see her bare feet peeking out from around her couch. He ran in, and gently rolled her over onto her back. Her eyes fluttered open and the relief in her eyes was obvious. "Jon," she whispered, tears appearing in the corners of her eyes.

"I'm here," he said, helping her sit up and lean against the couch. "I'm here," he said again as he cupped her face in his hands. "Pam, what happened?" The doctor in him was taking note that her breathing was labored, her arms and legs were twitching, and a film of sweat covered her brow.

She saw what he was thinking about. "I'm nauseous too, but so far I haven't thrown up," she whispered. "I started to get cramps a minute or two ago, right after I hung up with you –" she gasped and leaned over, holding her abdomen. "They're starting again," she said in a labored voice.

"What did Jason give you?" Jon asked in a clear voice as he wrapped an arm around her, typing to support her through the spasms that wracked her body. She could barely catch a breath.

"A shot," she panted. "In my arm. And they made me drink something."

"We need to get you to a hospital –"

She gripped his arm painfully, objecting. "No! No hospitals. They'll find me and kill me or they'll do something else to me –" her stomach heaved, trying to expel the foreign substance.

He decided to drop that subject. It was obvious it made her very scared and agitated. "I know it's hard, but you need to throw up whatever it was you drank," Jon said, making sure she could stay upright without his help before going to the kitchen and grabbing a trashcan and a roll of paper towels. "Here," he said, positioning it so she could easily reach it.

"I overheard –I overheard them talking about it –" Pam grimaced and she retched into the trashcan. Jon held her head and kept her red locks out of the way. She started to sob; he could tell her cheeks were a bright red from shame.

"It's okay," he said, ripping off a swath of paper towels and dabbing at her mouth. "It's okay, Pam. It's fine. You're trying to expel the stuff. Did you hear anything about what was in the substances?" A glance in the wastebasket told him that whatever it was, it had been bright green.

Her eyes darted around the room as she shook. "I –I don't …they were in Latin; I'm not good with Latin, I don't remember…"

"Try to remember some words, Pam," he urged. He held onto her ice-cold hands and tried to keep his blue eyes linked with her green ones, but she wasn't focusing on anything. "Pam?"

"I know I'm hallucinating," she whispered. "I'm not even seeing real things. But it makes it hard to think…"

"Try," he said, squeezing her hands.

Her eyes closed, and her brow furrowed. She whispered, "Digitalis something."

**Foxglove, **Scarecrow supplied. **In the right dosage, it's used as a medicine for heart failure. Otherwise, it's poisonous and can be fatal. Symptoms are nausea, vomiting, low pulse rate, and uncoordinated contractions of the heart.**

_Thanks _so_ much for the knowledge you obviously pulled from my head,_ Jon thought sarcastically.

**You're welcome, **Scarecrow said smugly.

Pam continued, "Something about a compound named X07."

**No clue.**

_I wonder why; maybe because I have no clue?_ Jon thought. _Nah, couldn't be._

**It's weird to hear you being sarcastic.**

Pam put her hands to her head and massaged her temples. "I've got such a headache. Umm…something about Belladonna… I can't remember anything else."

_"Atropa_ Belladonna?" Jon demanded.

"That sounds right," Pam conceded.

**Called either Belladonna or Deadly Nightshade, it is fatal to humans. Symptoms are loss of balance, staggering, headache, slurred speech, rash, confusion, hallucinations, delirium, and convulsions. Physostigmine is an antidote for _atropa belladonna_ poisoning.**

Jon swore; there was no way he could get the antidote in time. _Don't sound so smug,_ he chastised._ This is Pam we're talking about._

She looked up when he cursed, and fear entered her expression. "Am I going to die?" she asked.  
He stroked her hair gently. "No, you are not going to die."

"I feel like I'm going to die," she mumbled.

Another bout of cramps bore down on her, and she rolled into a ball and moaned. The muscle twitches she had been experiencing grew into full-scale convulsions, and she cried out and sobbed as the toxins attacked her body. He felt so helpless. All he could do was stay with her and hold her hands, cradle her in his arms when the convulsions temporarily subsided, and pray. He swore that he would hunt Jason Woodrue and Marc LeGrande down.

**Just let me at them. I'll make them scream and trap them in their worst nightmares,** Scarecrow hissed.

_We both will._

The minutes crept by, and soon she was shaking from fear of things he couldn't see. Pamela had crossed the line between fiction and reality, and Jonathan was afraid for her mind. He had no idea what those $&%# doctors had done to her, no way to predict what would happen. She scratched herself raw before he stopped her, grabbing her wrists so she couldn't rub whatever was happening to her skin away. She also threw up two more times as her body tried to purge itself of the toxins.

Finally, around one AM, her body stopped its convulsions and shakes, leaving her still. His heart almost skipped a beat as he felt for a pulse around her neck. Jon closed his blue eyes and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt her heartbeat, clear and strong. He gathered the woman into his arms and kissed her forehead.

"You gave me a scare there, darling," he whispered into her crimson hair.

**Are you going to get gross and sweet now?** Scarecrow asked in disgust.

_If you don't like it, you can shut up and go away._

**Bleugh.** He went.

Jon continued talking to the unconscious woman in his arms. "You know, sometimes you never realize how much you value something until you're faced with the possibility of losing it." He took a deep breath. "And I almost lost you. I guess I'm saying that…I care about you. And you aren't even awake to heart it."

His heart leapt in his chest as Pamela stirred slightly. "Mmm," she said. "A lot you know."

"Pam?" he said, tipping her head back. "Are you alright?"

"Really tired," she whispered, smiling slightly.

"You're so sneaky," Jon said, smiling in relief as he hugged her.

"Yep," she said, snuggling closer toward him. He snagged a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around them both. "And Jon?"

"Yes?"

She traced the line of his jaw. "Thank you for being here."

Something in his chest that had been constricted for a long time now loosened and grew. He held her close and kissed her hair. "You're welcome."

They both dozed off on the floor of her living room.

* * *

In the order they appear, the latin names are: Jimson Weed, Poison Ivy, Foxglove, and Belladonna/Deadly Nightshade,

Compound X07 = an experimental nerve agent developed by A.I.M (Advanced Idea Mechanics © Marvel comics) for HYDRA. HAHAHAHA Marvel has invaded DC! XD

Kudos to Wikipedia for being **my hero.** Did you know they have huge, long lists of poisonous plants, poisons in general, and even fictional poisons, toxins, etc? For all this effort, I think you should review :)


	8. 13:8

**AN: Sorry I was gone! I went to LIFE 2010, which is an awesome youth conference! It was in Kentucky this year. you can probably google or youtube it. It was THE MOST AMAZING THING EVER! the theme was Co[]ide. We were colliding with God all over the place. It was TOTALLY AWESOME! I'm so glad I went. SO worth it. Speakers were Francis Chan, Derwin Gray, and James Grout, not to mention all the totally super smaller session speakers. Saw Hawk Nelson and Kutless, learned more about missionaries and things overseas...just AWESOME! XD**

**And because of this, I realize that when people compliment me on my writing skills, what i'm now going to say is, 'They aren't mine. God gave them to me; I'm just a steward trying to use these gifts as best I can. All the praise and glory goes to Him.'**

**But anyways. Here's the next chapter.**

Love never fails. 

But where there are prophecies, they will cease; 

where there are tongues, they will be stilled; 

where these is knowledge, it will pass away."

_~1 Corinthians 13:8_

Pam woke up slowly. She was warm and soft, safe. But slowly, surely, the events of the previous night oozed back into her memory. She opened her eyes, taking in her surroundings. She was on the floor of her den, curled up with her head resting on Jon's chest.

Jon! She remembered that soft conversation he hadn't really expected her to hear. Pam tilted her head back to stare into his unconscious face. A smile crept up her face. He needed to shave. Quickly, slipping regretfully out of his arms, Pamela padded to her bathroom. She really needed to wash her mouth out and brush her teeth to get the taste of vomit out of her mouth. After gargling a couple times, she splashed water on her face, dampening some of her wild locks. Looking up into the mirror, Pam blinked.

Something wasn't right. But she couldn't put her finger on it.

She leaned closer toward the mirror, scrutinizing her face. Nothing was wrong. Everything was normal.

But her lips had changed color.

Once a blushing pink, now they had a ruby-red sheen, like she was wearing lipstick or lip-gloss. But she wasn't.

Grabbing a tissue, she blotted her lips, wondering what was going on, and if she was seeing things. However, once she examined the tissue, there was a reddish substance on it that could have only come from her lips. Pamela grabbed another tissue, and while looking in the mirror, rubbed violently at her lips, trying to remove whatever was on her lips. While watching, she scrubbed her lips clean and she was able to see the regular hue of her mouth. However, only seconds later her lips returned to that same glossy hue. _So… my skin is making this stuff?_ She wondered to herself, still not really able to believe it.

"Hey," Jon said in a sleepy voice, peering around the door of her bathroom. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know," Pamela answered honestly as she tucked her red hair behind her ears. "I've got a problem," she told him, handing him the stained tissues. "Can I use your lab at Gotham U? Mine might have burned up." Not that she wanted to work anywhere within a 50 mile radius of Woodrue and LeGrande ever again.

_What did they do to me?_

* * *

Jonathan flipped on the lights in his lab, casting a concerned glance at Pamela. She had been holding up admirable under the circumstances, but everything in her motions was too composed, to collected. She was over-thinking everything she did.

"Right," she said, grabbing a pack of cotton swabs and a Petri dish. "Let's get started. First –"

Jon cut her off, taking the pack from her hands and setting it down on the counter. "First," he said, taking her hands, "Are you all right?"

"Of course," she said, blinking and trying to pull her hands away.

"No, you're not," he said. "You were experimented on less than twenty-four hours ago and given God know what. You reacted to whatever went into your system, and now you are excreting some red substance. It is _okay _to admit you're not all right." His serious blue eyes stared into her green ones, reaffirming what he said.

She took a big breath and her shoulders slumped. "No," she whispered. "I'm not all right. Yesterday I knew exactly who I was, but today…" she looked up at him fearfully. "Something's happened to me. Whatever it was, I'm never going to be the same."

"Yes, you will," Jon said, brushing her hair from her face. "We'll figure this out, give you an antidote, and everything will be back to normal."

She smiled ruefully at him. "Now who's lying? We both know that's not true. I'm a big girl, Jon. I can take the fact that normal is no longer an option. I just…need a little time."

In the back of his mind, Jon knew that they both had been right; Pam didn't need a quick, simple, untrue solution. But he wanted her to be able to have one. A quick fix and the problem would disappear. Wasn't that how children's books resolved themselves? But this wasn't a children's book. It was life, life in Gotham City, no less. Nothing was ever simple.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I just wish I could give you a simple solution."

She smiled sadly. "That's sweet." Her hand cupped his cheek for a moment before turning back to the lab equipment and setting up. He moved to help her.

**So, Jonny…** Scarecrow asked as Jon pulled on rubber gloves and started the tests they had talked about in the car ride up.

_Do you have a point, or are you just offering sarcastic comments about my predicament?_

**There's always a point with me. You just have to find it. **Scarecrow laughed,** but I do have somethin' to tell you. You may have missed it in all the confusion.**

_I don't miss things,_ Jon said as he worked beside Pamela.

**You missed this.**

_How do you know?_

**Do we have to keep going over this? I _am_ you. **

_If you're me, and I'm you, shouldn't I know what you think I've missed?_

**Don't do the little psycho mind puzzles with me, Jonny-boy. I'm better.**

_Oh, _that's _debatable._

Scarecrow snorted. **Anyway, _genius,_ about your little girlfriend's… condition. You don't know what it is, if it's toxic or contagious…**

_Number one, she's not my girlfriend, and two, neither do you._

**Will you let me finish?** Scarecrow demanded angrily. **You know you want her to be your girl. I'm trying to _tell you_ there may be potential obstacles in the kissing department. **

Jonathan stared across the room at the opposite wall. *$% that Scarecrow. He was even more annoying when he was right. He _wanted _to kiss Pam. He could kiss her –he had kissed her hair. She just couldn't kiss him back. Not until they figured out what this substance was.

And he wanted her to kiss him back.

The phone in his pocket buzzed, and he put the test tube in his hands down. He glanced at the number and said, "Can you excuse me for a second, Pam?"

She nodded without looking up, absorbed in her work.

Moving away from her, he accepted the call. "Hello?"

"Dr. Crane, this is Andrea Willis, Mavis Turner's aid down at County. We have a problem."

"What sort of a problem?" he asked, glancing at Pamela.

"Carmine Falcone attempted suicide an hour ago. We're fairly sure he is mentally fine, but we'd like you to come and take a look at him."

**Falcone is trying to get a message across to you, Jonny-boy.**

_I noticed. _Jon frowned and glanced at his watch. "One moment." Covering the phone with his hand, he turned to Pamela. "Can you manage without me for a little while?" he asked her. "I'm really sorry…"

"Yes," she said. "Work is work. And there's nothing to be sorry for."

He smiled at her, and she smiled in return. "I'm back," he told the woman on the phone. "I can be there in twenty minutes."

"Thank you very much, doctor."

"Goodbye." He ended the call.

"I'm not sure when I'll be back, but you can always call me if you find something, or if you need something," he told Pam.

"Okay, Jon," she said, smiling. He was struck again by the way her lips shone ruby red. "Bye."

"Goodbye."

**So what're you going to do about Falcone?** Scarecrow demanded as he walked out to his car. **He's gonna threaten you, make you put him in Arkham to avoid the jail sentence. **

_I know._

**So?** Scarecrow hissed.

_What, can't you read my mind?_ Jon asked slyly as he put the car in gear. Scarecrow seethed, a boiling mass of anger and irritation. _Oh, don't blow a gasket. I'm going to go home, change, grab my briefcase, and head over to County._

Scarecrow became mollified. Inside of Jon's briefcase were the burlap mask and an aerosol can of fear gas.

* * *

Ms. Turner met him at the lower levels of County Prison. "Dr. Crane, thanks for coming," the black woman said.

"Not at all," Crane replied. "He cut his wrists?"

"Probably looking for the insanity plea," she said, with a dubious tone of voice. "But if anything should happen..." she shrugged.

"Of course, better safe than sorry."

She swiped her key card in the door and the lock snapped open, admitting him into the room. Jon smiled at the woman, turned to walk through the door, and then Scarecrow took over.

Falcone started the standard monologue. "Yeah, Dr. Crane, I can't take it anymore. It's all too much. The walls are closing in." The door buzzed to let them both know that the lock had been enabled. "Blah, blah, blah," the mob boss continued. "A couple of days of this food, it'll be true," he said, nodding. His wrists were coated with white gauze, a testament to his attempted suicide.

_Find out what he wants first, _Jon insisted. _All the patients so far have been totally broken after the fear toxin is administered._

**I know what I'm doing,** Scarecrow snarled angrily. Their body sat down at the table, placed the briefcase on the desk, took a deep breath, and looked up at Falcone with icy blue eyes. "What do you want?" he asked, cutting to the chase.

Falcone smirked. "I wanna know how you're gonna convince me to keep my mouth shut."

"About what?" Crane said flatly. "You don't _know_ anything."

"I know …you don't want the cops to take a closer look at the drugs they seized. And I know about your experiments with the inmates of your nut house." Falcone raised an eyebrow. "See, I don't go into business with a guy without finding out his dirty secrets. And those goons you used? I _own_ the muscle in this town. Now, I've been bringing your stuff in… for months; so whatever he's plannin', it's _big,_ and I want in."

The corner of the psychiatrist's mouth twisted. "Well, I already know what he'll say. That …we should _kill_ you." Scarecrow really thought Falcone needed to die. The guy was past his prime. Anyone could take him on in a fair fight. He ruled by an illusion from the past. Misplaced fear was something he detested.

"Even _he_ can't get me in here. Not in my town." Falcone winked slyly.

**You think you're so safe, so secure.** Scarecrow sneered. **You think you're a king or something here. Well, I'm going to prove you wrong. I'm going to lay you low.**

Taking a deep breath, Crane took off his glasses and smiled, his blue eyes cutting through to the soul. "Would you like to see my _mask_? I use it in my experiments." He unclasped his briefcase and pulled it out, displaying the rough burlap mask with the frowning face. "Now, I'm probably not very frightening to a guy… like_ you_," he said in a condescending tone. "But these _crazies_, they can't stand it."

Falcone stared at him in disbelief as Crane pulled the mask over his head. "So when did the nut take over the nut house?"

Scarecrow pressed the aerosol canister and released the white mist into the air. Falcone shouted in fear, his face twisting into a grimace with his mouth forming a big 'O'.

"They _scream _and they _cry_; much as you're doing now," Scarecrow growled, standing over the crime lord. Falcone's yells were alarming, grating. They gave him thrills down his spine. In front of him was a broken man, brought down by _him_. All the wisdom, knowledge, and reason his mind once contained was lost. Under the burlap mask, his face stretched into a malicious smile.

The door clicked behind him. "Well, he's not faking," Crane said, once he exited the room. "Not that one." He could still hear Falcone's screams from inside the room. "I'll talk to the judge and see if I can get him moved to the secure wing at Arkham. I can't treat him here." He shook his head, emphasizing his point. The woman stared at him, surprise and shock written all over her face. He walked off down the hall, feeling very satisfied.

**What, no reprimand, Jonny-boy? No lecture?**

_I have given up trying to explain to you that I use the gas primarily as a research tool. I monitor, study. I don't take pleasure in seeing someone's mind break. _

**Keep tellin' yourself that.**

His cell phone rang in his pocket, and he pulled it out, staring at the number. The caller ID said 'unknown.' He pushed his glasses up on his nose and accepted the call.

"Hello?"

"The microwave emitter has arrived," A foreign voice with a hint of European said briskly.

"Good."

"Get rid of the drugs at the pick up point."

He frowned. "I am not one of your lackeys, Ducard, or Ra's al Ghul, or whatever you wish to call yourself."

_What are you doing?_ Jon said. _Give me back control of my body._

**No.**

_I said –_

**I know what you said, Jonny-boy, but for right now, I think someone should use this body who knows how to use it.**

"You may wish to rethink that answer, Dr. Crane." Veiled threat was hidden in his voice.

_You are on dangerous ground here, _Jon hissed. _Just say okay and forget it!_

**No. This guy is a complete $*&%#.**

"Or what?" Crane replied.

"You haven't thought this through, Dr. Crane. Really, I'm surprised at you. Perhaps you are as cold and unfeeling as you make out."

"I'm _so_ glad you think so, Ra's," Scarecrow snapped, walking out of County Jail.

"Dr. Crane. Do you really mean to tell me that you would feel nothing if something happened to your lovely college?"

_Pam! He's threatening Pam! Drop it! _

**Forget it,** Scarecrow snarled. **I'm in control here. Worry about banging your girlfriend later.**

_No! You are going to relinquish your control right now!_

As their psyches battled for control, Ra's said, "I guess by your silence that means yes. Think about that, Dr. Crane. Think hard. And get rid of the drugs."

Jon ripped through Scarecrow's defenses and exclaimed, "No, wait –"

But the call had already ended.

Jon stared at his phone for a long time, chest heaving, teeth clenched. "#*&% you," he finally said. "Never do that to me again."

**You can't stop me, Jonny-boy.**

Jon feared he was right.


	9. 13:9

**AN: Sorry, but I'm going to be gone on another trip Monday. Probably be back Saturday or Sunday. sorry. But I'm leaving you with a cliffie.**

"For we know in part and we prophesy in part"

_~1 Corinthians 13:9_

Pamela adjusted her glasses on her nose and sighed. Her eyes ached from staring into microscopes and at monitors, reading what the computer's results. She had already absentmindedly licked her own lips in thought, so she knew that whatever it was, it wasn't toxic to _her._ But readings the test results, she had an idea of what it might be to anyone else.

She grabbed her cell phone and hunted around the lab for the university phone book, trying to find Schneider, Phillip G. Ah! There it was.

She dialed the number and waited for the phone to ring on the other end. Dr. Phillip Schneider was Gotham University's own herpetologist, getting old and rather eccentric. He had a pet snake named Boris.

The phone on the other end of the line picked up. "Hello?"

"Dr. Schneider? This is Dr. Pamela Isley."

"Ah, Dr. Isley, how are you?"

"Quite well, thank you. I was wondering if Boris had eaten his weekly supply of white lab rats yet."

"No, not as yet. He seems to be having stomach problems."

"Oh, the poor dear. I hope he feels better soon. But I was wondering –may I borrow a few rats for an experiment I'm working on?"

"Of course, my dear, whenever you like," the kind old man said.

Pamela smiled. "Thank you. I'll be right over to pick them up."

* * *

Two hours and five mice later, she was ready to quit. After swabbing the mice with the substance from her lips, absolutely _nothing_ happened to them. Which totally went against her theory that it was some sort of poison.

She had been injected with some toxic and unknown chemicals; somehow she had survived, but how were the mice staying alive? She had expected it to kill them.

But maybe that was because she couldn't remember all the ingredients. She grabbed a notebook and thought back to the night before. _Think, Pam! What had they said? What was it, _exactly,_ that they put into you?_ She asked herself.

_"…'What did you add into the bonding agent?'_

_'Datura stramonium, Toxicodendron radicans, and compound X07.'_

_'And in the oral substance?'_

_'Digitalis purpurea, Atropa Belladonna, and the herbs we brought back from Egypt.'…"_

Her eyes opened and she quickly scribbled down the Latin names and translated them. Her notes read:

Bonding agent: Jimson Weed, Poison Ivy, Compound X07 (?)

Oral: Foxglove, Belladonna/Deadly Nightshade, herbs (?)

She stared at the notebook and frowned. She had no idea what the 'herbs' were, or Compound X07. But the fact that poison ivy was one of the ingredients was very interesting. She quickly slipped on another pair of gloves and snatched a mouse from the cage that contained the remaining ten. She swabbed her lips with a Q-tip and parted the mouse's fur, rubbing the substance onto the skin. She set the mouse into a box and watched.

Nothing happened.

Her eyes widened. _I know what it is!_

* * *

Jonathan opened the door to the apartment no one lived in with a key from his pocket. He and the men behind him walked into the darkened room, illuminating shapes with a flashlight. Scruffy furniture littered with the remnants of bunnies and stuffing loomed out of the darkness. His blue eyes took in everything. "Get rid of all traces." He glanced toward the balcony; the door was open, allowing rain to splatter inside the apartment.

"Better torch the whole place," one of the men carrying the gas cans said.

Crane walked toward the open balcony, staring at the floor. It was wet, like somehow had tracked in water. He shifted his briefcase into his other hand in thought.

"All right," the other agreed. The men began tossing gasoline on any surface, especially the drugs and rabbits. Jonathan could smell the fumes of gasoline rising into the air.

Suddenly there was a crash, and Crane's head snapped around to look at the door. Moving quickly, he walked into the shadows of the apartment.

**This is just my day, isn't it?** Scarecrow said gleefully as Jon pulled his mask out of his briefcase. **Look out!**

The other man raised a lighter, trying to see something, but a black-cloaked figure wearing a cowl jumped out of the bathroom and slammed his head down, knocking him unconscious.

Scarecrow took over and sprayed what could only be the Batman with fear gas. "Having trouble?" he asked as the Batman's eyes dilated and he swiped at invisible enemies. "Take a seat," he sneered, watching him fall back onto a chair loosing its stuffing. "Have a _drink_." He growled and sloshed a bottle of whiskey over him. "You look like a man who takes himself too _seriously_. Do you want my opinion?" Scarecrow asked scathingly, holding up a lighter as the other waved his arms over his head. "You need to _lighten up_." He dropped the flame onto the other's costume, which immediately ignited. He stood back as the other threw his self out the window into the rain.

_Well, he stayed rational enough to know that water puts out fire,_ Jon observed.

**But he was still scared spitless,** Scarecrow laughed. **I'm going to make the call to Ra's.**

_Give me back my body._

**No. Remember what I said, Jonny-boy? Someone should be in control that knows how to use this body. I'm running the show now.**

_You can't do that!_ Jon railed. _I won't let you!_

**You can't exactly stop me.** Scarecrow pulled out his phone and called the most recent number –the one Ra's al Ghul had used.

"Dr. Crane," the cool, distinguished voice on the other end said after picking up. "What?"

"The drugs have been taken care of," Crane said, dropping his lighter on a pile of gasoline-soaked bunnies. They immediately flared up. He walked out of the apartment and down the stairs, still talking on the phone. "But don't think you can order me around."

_Don't be stupid and aggravate him,_ Jon hissed.

**I'm the king of aggravation, **Scarecrow growled. **It's what I do best.**

"Doctor," the man on the other end of the phone line sighed, "Have you forgotten so soon what we discussed?"

"You asked me if I cared about anything, and my answer is no, I don't," he snarled. "So there is no way to push me around."

"Then why have you so kindly let your red-headed college use your lab?"

"To get her off my back," Scarecrow snapped.

He was talking about Pam. They were _threatening _her. Jon yelled, struggling, _Let me out right now! I'm not going to let you put her in danger!_

**Your little girlfriend is no concern of mine, Jonny. I don't give a $*&% about her right now. **

_You can't do this!_

** I am fear incarnate. Everyone fears me, and I fear nothing,** Scarecrow roared. **That makes me stronger than you because you're afraid of losing something that you'll never have anyway. I am in control!**

_NO! You are not!_ Jon was fighting Scarecrow with every bit of his psyche, with every fiber of his being.

"I find that very hard to believe, what with the way you've both been acting. I think you're bluffing, doctor, and you had better be very, very careful." Ra's al Ghul hung up at the same time that Jon broke through Scarecrow's last wall of defense.

Jon felt his chest heave with exertion. He licked his lips and sighed as he could finally compel his body to do his will again. He cursed and said, "You're never getting out. Never again. Never. I don't need you that much!"

**Yes you do,** Scarecrow hissed. **You can't stop me from doing what I want. I'm stronger than you, and I always will be. I am the dominant half; accept it. Eventually I'll wear you down and take control again. You won't know where, or when, or how, but I'll do it. I'll complete your little diabolical plan that you're having so many doubts about, take all the power, and maybe your little girlfriend too.**

_Never, _Jon said, walking to his car._ Never, never, never._

_

* * *

_

He burst into the lab, startling the woman who sat at the computer, reading something on the screen.

"Jon!" She said, a smile on her face. But it dropped soon at the look on his face. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he said, coming up to her and putting his hands on her shoulders. "Are you?" His blue eyes were anxious.

She nodded slowly, puzzled and worried about the change in his manner. "Yes, I'm fine. Did something happen?" she asked.

He let out a shaky breath and his hands fell from her shoulders. "No," he said. "No, nothing happened."

She watched his face, tiny lines forming on his forehead. Then her green eyes dropped to his hands, which were making fists. "You're just about as bad a liar as I am," she said softly.

His blue eyes met hers, distant and clouded. "I am?" he asked. "I used to be a very good liar." His mouth twisted in displeasure, but she was quite sure it wasn't directed at her.

"Jon, you can trust me," she whispered. "What's wrong?" Her hands unconsciously reached out, pleading with him.

He took a deep breath and released it. "I think …I'm crazy," he said. She opened her mouth to immediately shoot down this idea, but he stopped her. "Well, what else would you call someone who hears voices in their head?"

She tilted her head sideways, watching him with her green eyes. "You hear voices?" she repeated. He nodded. "Well," she said slowly, "I'm no expert, but some do say that's a warning sign."

"That's just it!" He burst out. "I _am _an expert. And this isn't anything like what I've studied. It's not Dissociative Identity Disorder, because we have conversations. I guess it could be schizophrenia …auditory hallucinations are a symptom…" he trailed off, letting Pamela slip in a question of her own.  
"Conversations?"

He nodded his head and ran a hand through his black hair. "I feel like Jekyll and Hyde," he said softly.

"You are not crazy, Jon," Pam said, coming to a decision. "Crazy people don't talk sensibly. Maybe there's something wrong upstairs, but you aren't crazy."

Jon stared at her. "He doesn't like you."

"Who?" she asked.

"Him." He shrugged. "The voice. Scarecrow."

"Why doesn't he like me?" Pam asked in a small voice.

"Because I like you," Jon said.

A thrill ran down her spine, and the corner of her mouth turned up. "Jealous, is he?"

"No." Jon shook his head. "He doesn't like me, either. He wants to be in control. I told him I'd never let him take over again." He reached for her hands, and she found she liked the feeling of his warm hands on hers. "I'm going to keep you safe, Pamela," he said earnestly. "I promise. I won't let anyone hurt you."

She wanted to kiss him so badly; he looked so sweet and gentle standing there, declaring that he'd take care of her. But she couldn't. "You may not have to," she said, trying to lighten the mood. "I think I found out what they did to me."

**HAHAHA evil cliffie. Soooo sorry. ;D anyway, Kudos to yahoo answers for being awesome and making me realize what I planned on wasn't going to work. And then giving me an awesome way to twist it and make it better. Many thanks to all the awesome reviewers too! :) You guys rock!**


	10. 13:10

**AN: I'm baaaaack! here you are :) I love this chapter, myself :)**

"But when perfections comes, 

the imperfect disappears."

_~1 Corinthians 13:10_

His blue eyes widened, taking in her whole face, including the new color of her lips. "You have?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Tell me," he said, sitting down beside her again.

She picked up her notebook and looked it over. "I remembered exactly what they said they put in me." She read off the list. "Jimson Weed, Poison Ivy, Compound X07, whatever that is –I tried googling it and nothing came up." She continued, "Belladonna, Foxglove, and 'the herbs we brought back from Egypt'. Of course, there isn't any way to know what those are, either." She put the notebook down and gestured toward the box of white mice. "I borrowed some rodents to test the stuff out on, but get this: nothing happened."

He stared at her, trying to process this.

She smiled, a happy, excited smile. "I figured it out! Poison ivy."

"What about it?" he asked.

"The reason people are so allergic to poison ivy is because it has an oil called urushiol that reacts with the human T-cell. The oil penetrates the epidermis to bind to the deeper skin cell membranes. In that state, it's almost impossible to wash off. By itself, urushiol wouldn't be so bad, but when it binds to the cell membrane it sets off alarm bells for the patrolling T-cells. That's why you have such a bad allergic reaction," Pam explained. "That's also why the mice weren't effected. Animals can't get poison ivy."

"That's great," he said.

"I'm not done yet," she said, glancing at him. "I was focusing so much on the chemicals I remembered when I analyzed the samples under the microscope I completely missed the urushiol, and I think I figured out why." She took a deep breath. "The deadlier things, like foxglove and belladonna are bound to the oil. I hypothesize that, in order for someone to be poisoned by me, they have to be allergic to poison ivy."

Jon's gaze sharpened, focusing on her words. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, first the urushiol binds to your skin. It acts like a bridge for the deadly stuff to come over into your body and take effect, poisoning you. Without the urushiol to act as a bridge, there is no danger, really, since the mice didn't die." She shrugged. "It's just a hypothesis, and there's no way to really test it without causing a lot of harm to someone, but…"

"So, you're saying," Jon said, trying to clear the matter up in his head, "that if a person, hypothetically, was immune to poison ivy, they wouldn't die?"

"Well," Pam said, thinking about it. "I suppose the urushiol would still bind to their skin, which would still initiate a bridge…unless the T-cells had something to do with it…" she mused. "The toxin _could _only take effect after the immune system responds to it, which would only happen if the person was allergic…that would explain the mice…"

They both sat and thought. Jon turned the problem over and over in his mind. _Why live if you don't take risks?_ He asked himself. He turned to Pamela and said, "Well, isn't it a good thing I'm immune to poison ivy?" He took her face in his hands and gently pressed his lips to hers. _If I'm going to die, I want to go out like this._

Pamela's first thought was to pull away, and so she struggled against him, desperately afraid she would kill him. But his arms were strong enough to hold her in place, and his lips were wonderfully soft. Eventually she relaxed enough to kiss him back. He pulled back to breathe in again, and she gasped, "You shouldn't have done it! We don't know anything for sure; it's all hearsay and hypothesis so far –" He cut her off by kissing her again. Bliss wasn't even enough to describe what she was feeling.

When his lips left hers, she felt deep regret. He felt for his pulse, and asked, "I don't look like I'm breaking out, am I?"

"Poison ivy takes a day or two to show," she said.

"But you said I'd be effected by the toxins," he reminded her. "I'm not. So congratulations, Dr. Isley, your hypothesis has become a theory."

"We still don't know how it affects someone who is allergic," she pointed out.

"But we will soon," he said slowly, his eyes far off.

"Don't ever do that again," she told him, exasperated.

"Do what?" he asked innocently. "Perform a deadly experiment with no evidence, or kiss you?" His blue eyes sparkled.

"The first one," she said, blushing.

"So may I assume that I have permission to kiss you?" he whispered, leaning in again.

"You may," she said, with a full-lipped smile.

Their lips touched again and she sighed, happy.

* * *

"Thank you for taking me home," she said, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger.

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" Jon asked with a smile. They were driving down the highway on the way to her house. "Just leave you at the University for the night?"

Pam rolled her eyes playfully at him. "Well, thank you very much, anyway."

"You're welcome," he replied. And for a while, it was silent in the car.

Pam was turning their previous conversation over in her head. "Jon, do you feel comfortable talking about…your alter?" she asked, trying to find a tactful word.

"I'll talk about him," he said grimly. "And you can stuff your problems. I don't care."

She stared at him.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Sheesh, did I say that out loud?"

"Yes," she said, watching him, concerned.

"He was complaining," Jon explained. "It's annoying."

"And you told him to…stuff it?" Pam asked.

He nodded, looking just a tad sheepish.

"Does he listen?"

"Not usually," he said, turning into her neighborhood, "but it makes me feel better."

"Well, would you tell him something for me?" Pam asked.

"He can hear you," Jon said, frowning.

"Good." She thought for a moment, and then said, "I hear you don't like me, Mister Scarecrow. Tough. You are a part of Jon, and I like Jon. You don't scare me in the slightest. Deal with it." She glanced at Jon, who had a strange expression on his face. "How'd he take it?"

"He's pretty PO'ed, among other things," Jon commented dryly. "But Pam?"

She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Be careful. If he gets out –"

"He won't," she assured him. "You can handle it."

"But if he _does,_" he emphasized, "he might…come after you. So, I'm telling you, if that happens, to go to my house, my lab, or my office, and find the blue canister in my bottom drawer of my desk. The blue one, mind."

"Your desk is in three different places at once?" she asked, laughing.

"No, I merely have three desks. Can you remember that, though?" he asked.

"I think so," she said, amused, as he pulled into her driveway. "Anyway. I'll call you tomorrow night." She smiled. "Harley and I are going dress shopping."

"Oh?" he asked. She had spoken about her good friend who was working on her degree in psychology, but he had never met her. He was slightly jealous that she wouldn't be spending time with him. He wanted to spend time with Pam. She was an intriguing person, funny, intelligent…a match. For him.

"Yes," she said, and he nearly jumped, thinking she had heard what he was thinking. But she went on, "I just realized, what with this poison in me and all…life is too short to sit around like a wallflower and feel sorry for myself. So I _am_ going to that birthday party for Wayne, I'm going to have fun, and I'm going to look gorgeous."

"Well, I hope you let me see the dress," Jon said, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

She smiled coyly and said, "We'll see." She winked and shut the door, walking up the steps to her house.

_Jon,_ he told himself, _you've got it bad._

And Scarecrow didn't even make a comeback.

* * *

"Oh, come on, Harl, we've been all over the downtown shopping district," Pamela said, holding back a whine. She had been looking forward to this, but she had thought it would be a little easier to find something she liked. The styles that were in nowadays were those dresses that had empire waists, lots of cloth, and little figure. And she looked dowdy in them. Plus pastels were in right now, and with her hair, only certain colors worked.

"Not _all_ over; there're still those three smaller shops down by the corner, and I can't believe I'm actually talking you into this, Pam!" Harley said, exasperated. "I thought _I_ was the one with an aversion to shopping."

Pam glanced down an inch or two at the shorter woman beside her. "You're right. I am _determined_ to look gorgeous for the party tomorrow night. Let's go," she said, looping her arm through her friend's.

Inside the store, Pamela reviewed her options with Harley. "No empire waists. NO pastels; green or black would be good, red if it doesn't clash. And I keep forgetting that I need shoes."

"Dress first," Harley said, motioning toward the racks. "It would be easier if we went to a designer place."

"I'm just as cheap as you are, and I'm not dishing out a whole paycheck for a _dress_," Pam said scathingly. "I can find something I like off the rack."

"Tell that to the last couple stores. With your figure, you could pull off a burlap sack, you know," Harley said, going through the evening gowns with Pam.

"Just as long as the burlap sack doesn't have an empire waist," Pam joked, and they both laughed.

* * *

Just when she was about to give up, there it was. She found it.

The second she saw it, she told Harley, "This is the one." She knew it sounded clichéd, but it really was true. She loved the vintage look it had, but still combined with a modern tone. The deep emerald green was one of the most beautiful colors she had ever seen, and it all managed to pull off the look of a femme fatale from the old black and white Hollywood movies that had captivated her imagination as a child. Visions of women in slinky ball gowns with beautiful hair and gorgeous eyes dancing with men in tuxes…she sighed, remembering. Most girls dreamed of being princesses; she had dreamed of that.

"Whoa…." was all Harley could say as she stared at the dress. All of a sudden, she regained control of her tongue. "Pam, grab that dress and GO TRY IT ON!" she exclaimed, pushing Pamela toward it.

The redhead picked up the dress and carried it to the fitting rooms, where she undressed and slipped the satin evening gown over her head. The back was pretty much bare except for lacings across it, but it had an invisible zipper that made getting into it much easier than she had thought. It had spaghetti straps as well as an emerald crepe halter-top. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and smoothed the dress down. It hugged her hips and then flared out in a mermaid style hem.

"Well, come on, let me see!" Harley said from outside. Pamela wriggled her bare toes under the satin skirt and sighed. It fit like a glove. She stepped out the door and Harley immediately said, "Pull your hair out of that clip." Pam let her hair down from the clip she had put it in that morning to keep it out of the way. Her curly red locks spilled around her shoulders like a waterfall. "Buy it," Harley said finally. "I've got green high heels that I've never worn; you can wear those, and that emerald choker you've got will be perfect."

"You've never worn the shoes because you hate high heels," Pam said absently, swishing her skirt around.

"Yeah, so you might as well have them. Go take it off so we can pay."

"Do I have to?" Pam said longingly.

The blond laughed. "Yes, they usually like payment at places like this, and you don't want to get the dress dirty."

With a sigh of reluctance, she went back in the dressing room to remove the elegant dress and put her jeans and t-shirt back on.

After paying, Pam said to Harley after they walked out of the store, "Do you think Jon will like it?"

"Jon who?" Harley asked.

Pamela blushed.

"Pam," Harley said slowly, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No," Pam said, her cheeks hot. "We aren't dating or anything…"

"But you'd like to be."

Pam shot her a look. "I'm so glad you're putting your psychologist training to work on me."

"Hmm," Harley said with a smile. "You care about him very much. But you didn't meet casually, or I would have heard about it, so it must be work related."

"A bit," Pamela admitted.

"Is that why you haven't told me?" Harley asked, her blue eyes searching out her friend's.

"Partly, but…it all happened a bit suddenly," she said, thinking back to those heart-stopping kisses.

"Well, good for you," Harley said, giving her an impulsive hug.

Pam froze, not returning the hug for several seconds. Her heart had skipped a beat because her friend's face had come dangerously close to her lips. But eventually, she wrapped her arms around her close friend. "Thanks," she said.

Harley pulled back from her friend, and studied her face. _She knows something's wrong,_ Pam thought,_ but…I need a little time to figure out how to tell her I now excrete urushiol like a poison ivy plant and I'm potentially deadly to anyone who isn't immune to it. What a wild story. _

_I'll tell her after the party tomorrow,_ she decided. _We'll sit down, I'll tell her how it went, and then I'll level with her. I promise._

* * *

_The next day_

"Pamela Isley, you look gorgeous," Harley assured her.

"Are you sure?" Pamela asked, staring at her reflection. The dress was on, she was in the heels, her nails and makeup were done (she had done the makeup herself), and her hair was hair-sprayed within an inch of its life, but she was suddenly unsure.

"Don't let your doubts get the best of you," Harley said, handing her the sequined purse. "You are a beautiful, confident woman who is going to go to a party with the socialites of Gotham and outshine them all. You are going to have fun. Maybe even dance a little." Harley grinned. "Then you're going to come back and tell me all about it."

"You don't care about social events," Pam said, gripping the purse.

"But I care about my friend, and this is important to her," Harley said. "So I will listen dutifully and you can tell me why people get so worked up about parties." She glanced out the window. "The taxi's here."

"Oh bother," the redhead sighed. "Why can't I take my own car?"

"Your own car is boring. And a limo is too expensive, so we're setting for a taxi." Harley handed her coat to her. "Let's get this show on the road."

Pamela walked out the door and got in the yellow cab. Pam got her dress situated and then waved to Harley, standing in between their two houses. "Bye!" she called. "Thanks for the pep talk!"

"Have a good time!" the blond called, and waved as the taxi drove away.

Leaning back inside the cab, Pam pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Jon's number.

He picked up. "Hello?" he asked, sounding distracted.

"Hey," she said, apprehensive again. "Did I call at a bad time?"

"A little, but I can talk for a second," he said. Footsteps echoed down the line to her.

"Well, I'm on my way to the party. Just wanted to call and tell you."

"Good!" He said, "Have fun."

"I will," she replied. "Will I see you when I get back?" she asked, hesitantly.

"I wanted to see the dress, remember?"

She laughed, liking the way she could tell from his voice that his eyes were sparkling.

He apologized, "Pam, I've got another call I have to take. Sorry, work, you know."

"Of course," she said. "Talk to you later."

"Bye," he said.

She shut her phone and stared at the highway in front of her. Hearing his voice both reassured her and made her nervous. She took a deep breath. This party would be fabulous. She would come home and have a girl talk with Harley, coming clean about the poison on her lips. And then she'd talk to Jon. Those kisses…she wanted more of them. She wanted to be around him. She was by no means an expert on the subject, but she thought…maybe…perhaps…she might love him…just a bit.

And that was a pretty scary thought.

* * *

Jon hung up on Pam and took the second call. "This is Dr. Crane," he said, not knowing who the number was.

"Dr. Crane, Ms. Dawes would like you to come down to Arkham Asylum. She wants to speak to you about Carmine Falcone's incarceration there…oh, this is Mrs. Mills, the general secretary at Arkham."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mills. I'll be there in twenty minutes," Jon said, and hung up. He resisted the urge to punch his fist through the wall of his lab. Why did Rachel Dawes have to do this now? The little miss incorruptible assistant DA who had somehow survived the hit Falcone had put out on her. He had only moved Falcone the day before, how had she heard so fast? He groaned. He would have to do something about this. He grabbed his briefcase and walked out the door.

***Kudos to yahoo answers for the poison ivy information.**

**Dress is at http:/ / blue velvet vintage .com/ ****vintage -inspired- evening-gown- burgundy- red-bias- cut-satin-with- lace-up- back. html **

**Just take out the spaces. Except, you know, it's green.**


	11. 13:11

**AN: thank you so much for all the reviews and favorites! I love seeing them in my inbox, and i'm so glad you like the story. here you go with chapter 11.  
**

"When I was a child, I talked like a child, 

I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. 

When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me."

_~1 Corinthians 13:11_

When he arrived in the secure wing at Arkham, Rachel Dawes was already there, staring into Falcone's cell where he was strapped to a chair, muttering, "Scarecrow… Scarecrow… Scarecrow," as he stared at the ceiling.

Crane pursed his lips and said, "Miss Dawes, this is most irregular. I have nothing to add to the report I filed with the judge."

"I have questions about your report," she snapped, turning to face him.

"Such as?" he asked as politely as he could manage, given the circumstances.

"Isn't it _convenien_t for a fifty-two year-old man who has _no history_ of mental illness...to have a psychotic breakdown _just _when he's about to be incarcerated?" She asked, her eyes narrowed, probing.

She had a lawyer's mind, and a clean cop's instincts. She suspected something. _Idealist_. "As you can see for yourself," he told her stiffly, "there is nothing _convenien_t …about his symptoms."

"Scarecrow…" Falcone muttered again from his cell.

"What's "scarecrow"?" she said, latching onto the word.

_What would you say if I told you it was my other personality who comes out to torment those whom he sprays with fear toxin, Miss Dawes? You would believe _I _was insane._ He waited for a sarcastic remark from Scarecrow on his mental state, but nothing was forthcoming. "Patients suffering delusional episodes often focus their paranoia...on an _external_ tormentor... usually one conforming to Jungian archetypes," he explained, using psychobabble that she probably did not understand. "In this case, a scarecrow." A certain tendril of unease filled his mind. Scarecrow had been silent for almost two days. Jon didn't believe he was gone at all; it was more probable that he was biding his time, for what, he didn't know.

A scary thought.

"He's drugged?" she asked.

"Psychopharmacology is my primary field. I'm a strong advocate," he said, thinking, _considering what I've made and what I've done, I've had to be._ "Outside, he was a giant," he continued. "In here, only the mind can grant you power."

She watched him with narrowed eyes, looking down an inch or two on him since she was taller than he in heels. "You enjoy the reversal," she said, understanding, disgust plainly written on her face.

"I _respect_ the mind's power over the body," he said. _Most of the time. Except when someone is taking over my body. Then it's a battle to be won._ "It's why I do what I do." _It would be a good idea to find out how a psyche can take control of motor functions from another psyche. In case he tries again._

"I do what I do to keep thugs like Falcone _behind_ bars, _not_ in therapy," she said, turning on her heel and walking toward the elevator. He fell into step with her. "I want my own psychiatric consultant to have _full access_ to Falcone –including blood work. Find out what exactly you put him on," she muttered.

"First thing tomorrow, then," Jonathan said, feeing a strange sort of pressure build up in his chest.

"Tonight," she corrected. "I've already paged Dr. Lehmann at County General."

He felt a huge wave of rage build up in him, and his mind was swamped by it. The waters of anger crashed down over him, pulling his control away from his body, ripping his conscious mind away and tossing it back into the shadows of his skull. Scarecrow rode the wave, gaining control even as Jon floundered in the waters.

**I told you that you couldn't stop me, Jonny,** Scarecrow growled. **Here I am, back again. I'm taking over. And I'm going to take care of this girl here and now. She isn't going to interfere any more.**

Jon was so well buried he could hardly even reply, but all he could think of to say was, _No, no….no…_

**Oh, _yes_, **Scarecrow howled gleefully. The only outward sign of their struggle was a cough.

"As you wish," Crane said, pulling a key from his pocket and turning it in the lock of the elevator panel. He pushed the basement button, and the elevator traveled down, down, down.

Its doors swung open and he stepped out, saying, "This way, please. There's something I _think_ you should see." He walked down the bare hallway to the basement levels and pushed open the doors, as Jon tried to do something, anything, and failed.  
So think of a pro wrestler, the one that looks like his muscles are going to rip through his skin. Duplicate him a couple of times. Pour them into a huge vat of sticky, thick, black tar. Now pour it all on Jon's psyche and slam them all into a freezer. That's what he was up against. Scarecrow laughed inwardly, just thinking about it.

They came into view of the testing site, where selected inmates poured vats of his lovely fear toxin into the hole in the water mains. She stopped stock still, watching the scene unfold in front of her that clearly screamed 'illegal!' Her brain connected the dots.

"This is where we make the medicine," Scarecrow said softly. "Perhaps you should have some." He saw her disappear from the corner of his vision. "Clear your head." He took a deep breath, knowing the elevator wasn't going anywhere fast. He undid the latches of the briefcase, pulled out the canister and his face. This was who he really was. Scarecrow. The Master of Fear, answerable to no one. With the respirator in place and the burlap covering his head, he walked to the elevator and pressed the button.

The doors swung open to show a terrified woman, who became even more terrified when he sprayed his toxin directly in her face. She coughed and hacked, pupils dilating and face contorting in horror as she collapsed on the floor.

**This day just gets better and better,** he purred to himself.

Some of the flunkies carried her down the flight of stairs to the basement, where they set her on a ledge. Scarecrow walked slowly over to her and stared down at her. "Who knows you're here?" he demanded in a growl. "Who _knows_?"

She screamed from the terror of something only she saw.

And then the lights went out with a bang.

At the sudden noise, he yanked his mask off his face and looked around. His blue eyes eerily bright, he ran a hand through his hair. "He's here," he said with bated breath.

"Who?" one of the flunkies asked him.

"The Batman," Scarecrow replied, his eyes scanning the shadows of the ceiling.

Their eyes widened. "What do we do?" another asked.

"What _anyone_ does when a prowler comes around," he said in an obvious tone. "Call the police," he said with a smile, glancing at the first flunky.

"You want the cops here?" he asked with a totally confused expression.

**One must make sacrifices, **Scarecrow thought, ignoring Jon, whose hope had just spiked.

"At this point, they _can't stop_ us," Scarecrow explained for the benefit of his men. "But the _Bat-man_…has a talent for disruption. Force him outside; the police will take him down. Go."

"What about her?" Flunky number two asked.

Scarecrow glanced at Rachel Dawes, whose head was rolling back and forth, eyes focused on nothing. "Ah, she hasn't got long. I gave her a _concentrated_ dose. The mind can only take so much. Now, **go**." He didn't take kindly to being questioned.

"The things they say about him. Can he really fly?" asked flunky number three.

"I heard he can disappear," flunky number one asserted.

"Well," Scarecrow said with a sadistic smile, "we'll find out. _Won't _we?"

Something smashed overhead, and all the men's eyes stared into the shadows. And then the Batman appeared and disappeared, taking out the thugs one by one. Scarecrow watched from underneath the stairs, his mask back in place.

When the caped figure came close, Scarecrow tried to grab the Batman's arm, but he had forgotten about the man's reflexes, if he really was a man. The Bat twisted his arm behind him and snatched his mask off of his face.

"Taste of your own medicine, doctor?" Batman asked in a venomous voice. He pressed the nozzle of the aerosol canister and Scarecrow got a face full of gas. He gasped and choked, watching as Batman's face turned into the face of a monster.

"What have you been doing here? _Crane_, who are you working for?" he growled demonically. Tar seeped out of his ghoulish mouth.

Scarecrow could not think rationally; his psyche was shutting down, drastically damaged. Jon noticed all this from his viewpoint behind Scarecrow's psyche. He could see and feel his body, but he wasn't in control yet. But he would be. The walls were thinning.

"Ra's... Ra's al Ghul," Scarecrow wheezed.

"Ra's al Ghul is _dead_," Batman growled. "Who are you working for? _Crane!_" Tar began to drip down his chin. Jon took note of this impassively. _At least I know my toxin works… I wish I could take notes._

Scarecrow smiled a little sickeningly and whispered, "Dr. Crane isn't _here_ right now…" _You've certainly got that right,_ Jon thought. "…But if you'd like to make an appointment..." he trailed off, staring at nothing. Batman growled and smashed his head against the wall. Stars sparked, and then everything went black.

* * *

He woke up in a squad car. Scarecrow was still in control, if you could call it control. It was more like he was lodged in the forefront of their mind.

_Serves you right,_ Jon thought, trying to get past the mental wall.

Scarecrow's mind was now just dead weight as he mumbled, **ThE WaLruS aNd thE caRpEndeR wENt to seE WhaT they could SeE…**

_Lord, I shall be eternally grateful if you'd shut him up,_ Jon thought, and tried to find the brain synapses that controlled his motor functions.

**Pat-A-CakE, pAt-A-caKE, bAkeR's mAN…**

Jon sighed.

* * *

Pam peeled off some bills for the cabbie and said, "Are you going to wait for me, or go?"

"I'll wait, miss," the cabbie said, leaning back. "Catch some 'z's."

"Thank you," she said, carefully exiting the cab and shutting the door. As she walked up the impressive and immense steps of Wayne Manor, she made sure that she had her invitation and her purse in her hands. Lots of people were already there, and more were arriving all the time. _Bruce Wayne must have invited half of Gotham,_ Pamela though to herself, self-consciously touching her hair. She handed her invitation to the man at the door, and stepped inside. Another man took her coat and she blushed, smoothing the dress over her hips.

It was truly beautiful in Wayne manor. Her green eyes took in the delicate glass chandelier overhead, the tasteful decorations, and the expensive refreshments.

"Doctor Isley?"

Pamela turned; surprised, and then her face broke into a smile. "Mr. Fox! A pleasure to see you again." Lucius Fox, an older man with chocolate skin and white hair smiled at her kindly. He had been one of her bosses in her limited stint at Wayne Enterprises, and she had always liked him. "I'm flattered you remember me, sir."

"I always remember good interns, doctor," he said. "And I couldn't exactly miss you, since you're one of the prettiest ladies in the room."

She blushed a dark red. "Thank you, sir."

"Did you just get here?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes," she said, glancing around the room. "Wayne Manor is a very interesting place."

"Mr. Wayne is a man of interesting tastes," Fox said with a secret smile. "Would you like some champagne?"

"That would be lovely," Pamela said, finally relaxing. Finding someone she knew was a relief. She beamed at the room in general. Tonight was going to be perfect.


	12. 13:12

"Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; 

then I shall know fully, 

even as I am fully known."

_~1 Corinthians 13:12_

Jon knew he was in Arkham, strapped to a chair, and in a straightjacket. But Scarecrow was being obstinate. He hated him even more as a brainless idiot then he did as a rational… alter ego, hallucination, whatever-he-was.

He tried to get his eyes to focus on the man sitting in front of his body, but it wasn't working. He cursed inwardly.

"What was the plan, Crane? How were you gonna get your toxin into the air?" A man he distantly recognized as Jim Gordon, a police officer, asked. He stared intently, fingering the mask in his hands as his mustache twitched.

Scarecrow corrected him in a whisper, "Scarecrow… _Scarecrow_." His eyes darted all over the place.

_He wants _me_, stupid! Let me out!_

Scarecrow just laughed insanely.

"Who were you working for, Crane?" Gordon said in a louder voice.

Scarecrow's eyes flickered. "Oh, it's too late." He shook his head. "You can't stop _us_ now." He smiled a little.

_You leave me out of your schemes that don't make any sense! _Jon said, chipping away at the mental block in between them.

"Here," Gordon said, handing his mask to a guard and stalking out. "He isn't any help."

* * *

" –And then of course, they remembered they hadn't put any gas in the tank!" Mr. Fox said.

Pamela laughed, mirth bubbling up inside of her. His story about an incompetent technician and a failed test was truly funny. She took a sip from her champagne glass in order to get her breathing under control.

"Lucius, how are you?" a man said, coming up to them in an immaculate suit.

"Quite well, Mr. Wayne. This is Dr. Pamela Isley," Fox said, introducing her.

"A pleasure to meet you," Bruce Wayne said, smiling at her, but his gaze seemed a bit…strained.

"You as well, Mr. Wayne," she replied. "Happy Birthday."

"Thank you, doctor. Do you mind if I steal Mr. Fox for a moment?" He asked, turning on the charm that all millionaires seemed to have. Or perhaps he was a billionaire by now; Pam couldn't remember. She didn't read the tabloids. "I promise to bring him right back," he assured her.

"Of course," she said with a smile.

Mr. Fox's weathered face smiled at her, and they both faded into the crowd. Pamela set her empty champagne glass onto a passing waiter's tray, and surreptitiously walked after them. _So maybe I haven't learned my lesson about eavesdropping, but my instincts are always right. And my instincts say that Bruce Wayne isn't just a playboy who's looking for kicks. Something's bothering him. And I'm going to find out what._

Her mother had once told her that with her intense curiosity, she should have been a reporter or a detective, and not a biochemist. But plants were her passion. Sleuthing was only a Nancy Drew fantasy left over from her teen years. She pretended to inspect an ice sculpture in front of her, as the men spoke in low tones a couple of yards away.

"…Manufacture on a large scale?" Bruce inquired.

"Weeks. Why?" Fox asked.

"Somebody's planning to disperse the toxin using the water supply," Bruce told him.

Fox shook his head. "The water supply won't help you disperse an inhalant…" he trailed off.

"What?" Wayne asked.

"…Unless you have a microwave emitter powerful enough to _vaporize_ all the water in the mains," Fox said slowly. "A microwave emitter like the one Wayne Enterprises just misplaced."

"_Misplaced_?" Bruce questioned.

There was more to the conversation, but Pam didn't hear it. She had locked on the words 'toxin', 'inhalent', 'water supply', and 'vaporize.' She could hear herself saying, many months ago, "_So the compound has to be absorbed in the lungs to take effect?"_ She swallowed hard. _I could be wrong,_ she thought to herself._ I might just be drawing the wrong conclusions. _

_But what if I'm not?_

"Don't you just think that sculpture is gorgeous?" A woman in a fashionable dress said, coming up to her. Jumping from surprise, Pam blinked, a little blinded by the vast amounts of jewelry the woman wore. _Blast! _She thought. The woman continued on, "It was made especially for this occasion. By a Parisian sculpture, I believe."

"Oh," Pamela said. "Yes, very pretty."

"Swans are just graceful animals, don't you think?" the woman asked busily.

"Oh, yes, very much so," the redhead said, finally realizing that what she had pretended to stare at was in fact a ice swan that was beginning to sweat just a tad.

Apparently satisfied with her answer, the woman buzzed off to snatch Bruce Wayne and introduce him to someone. He didn't seem to want to be snatched. Pamela tried to follow them, but almost collided with a waiter and some millionaires. She pulled up short, blushed, and apologized for the near mishap. She adjusted her dress, scanning the crowd. A glance around the room showed that Mr. Fox could no longer be seen either. _Where could he have disappeared? _Pam wondered_. And what on earth was that conversation about? Please don't let it be what I think it was…_

A fork clinked against a glass. "Ev'r'one. Ev'r'body?" Bruce Wayne slurred. "I... I want to thank y'all f'r coming here tonight and drinkin' all of my booze." The high society guests laughed politely, thinking he was joking. "No, really. There's a thing 'bout bein' a Wayne that you're never short of a few freeloaders… _like yourselves_ to fill up your mansion with. So here's t' you people. Thank you."

"That's enough, Bruce," a man said to him. They thought he was drunk. You could see it on their faces, but…Pamela clenched her purse with white knuckles. She had just heard him speak very reasonably and rationally to herself and Mr. Fox. And she was a scientist. She _knew_ it was impossible to get drunk within the space of five minutes. But he was a very convincing drunk.

Bruce Wayne, the undiscovered actor, continued, "I'm not finished," he said taking a sip of champagne. "To all'a you. All'a you phonies, all'a you _two-faced_ friends... you _sycophantic suck-ups_ who smile through y'r teeth at me…please, leave me in peace. Please go. Stop smiling; it's not a joke. Please leave. The party's over; _get out_."

She could almost sense what he was thinking: _I'd like to thank the Academy…_

Pamela was caught up in the crowd that began to filter disgustedly toward the doors, disgruntled looks on their faces. But she could see tall pillars of men that didn't move as the crowd oozed toward the doors. A select few people remained in the room. Her instinct told her that there was a reason for Wayne to act like a drunken bum. She slipped behind a pillar disguised by a drape and a palm, opening her ears as wide as possible.

"Amusing. But pointless," a cultured, European voice said. "None of these people have long to live. Your antics at Arkham Asylum have forced my hand."

Pamela pressed a hand to her mouth, muffling her own gasp. What antics at Arkham Asylum?

"So Crane was working for you," Bruce said, all traces of drunkenness gone.

Wait, Jon had been working for this man?Why?

"His toxin is derived from the organic compound found in our blue flowers…"

_Pamela, you're a fool,_ she told herself,_ you're a blind, ignorant fool! Something was wrong, and you never thought to ask or press for any sort of explanation?_ _What did he do with the toxin I helped him create, the toxin that has to be absorbed into the lungs?_

"…He was able to weaponize it."

_Fear…_ her blood ran cold.

Bruce questioned, "He's not a member of the League of Shadows?"

"Of course not. He thought our plan was to hold the city to ransom."

"But really, you are gonna release Crane's poison on the _entire_ city," Wayne said, in tones of disbelief.

"And then watch Gotham _tear itself apart_ through fear," the European voice said.

Pamela moaned inwardly, slipping after the men, who were walking away. What had Jon been _thinking_? The signs were there. How edgy he had gotten when she told him about Jason and Marc's smuggling, his change of behavior after she had gotten back from her trip, his concern for her… she remembered the conversation about the canister. She had never thought to ask why she would need a canister to deal with an alternate personality. Never thought to ask why he was so against his alter getting out. _Was that what happened, Jon? Did 'scarecrow' get out? _And poisoning Gotham? Had he been worried 'scarecrow' would poison her? Poison her with fear?

And was the canister the antidote?

"You're gonna destroy millions _of lives_," Bruce said, and that brought her train of thought back around to him. How did _Bruce Wayne_, millionaire playboy and heartthrob who had been missing for years, know this person?

Something flickered in her vision, and her head snapped around. A man, dressed totally in black, had almost snuck up on her. His whole face was covered except for his eyes.

_He's going to sound the alarm! _Pam thought._ I can't let that happen! They can't know I'm here!_ She ran straight for the man; he hadn't been expecting that. Swiping a hand across her mouth, she lunged for him. She was going to try to poison him.

It didn't work. The man was obviously a total professional at combat, and she was not. But as he tried to pull her hands behind her back, Pamela noted he was a complete amateur when dealing with slippery fabrics. Without stopping to think, she twisted in his grip, using her dress to help her, and planted her lips on whatever exposed skin she could see, which was mostly the bridge of his nose and an eyelid.

The man in black still didn't say anything. _What is he, a ninja?_ Pam wondered desperately, trying to escape and wondering if she had been wrong, if she wasn't poisonous after all.

But then he dropped her like a sack of potatoes to claw at his eyes.

She scooted far back from him and got to her feet as _he_ fell to the ground, thrashing and convulsing. And then he simply stopped moving.

Her breath caught in her throat. What had she done? With shaking hands, she pulling his headpiece off, revealing a perfectly common, perfectly normal person. She felt for a pulse on his neck.

There was none.

Her eyelids fluttered closed. She had just killed a man.

The cultured voice intruded into her ears again, disrupting her inward horror. "No one can save Gotham. When a forest grows too wild, a purging fire is inevitable and _natural_. Tomorrow the world will watch in horror as its greatest city _destroys_ itself."

_I have to get out of here,_ she realized. _Shake it off._ _There's more at stake here, like the fate of Gotham. And Jon. _

She had to get out of here, and get that canister.

* * *

Slowly but surely, that's what Jon told himself. Slowly but surely, the walls were coming down. But it seemed like nothing was happening at all. Scarecrow was still mumbling nonsense inside his head, and Jon still had no control. Not that he could do anything, since he was in a straight jacket, but still. He'd like his body back now, thank you very much.

Crane's eyes flickered upwards as the cell lock snapped open. Two SWAT officers walked into the cell.

Jon felt the swell of pride, villainous intent, and sadistic pleasure that came from Scarecrow as the burlap mask was tossed onto their lap.

"Time to play," the SWAT officer whispered.

Scarecrow smiled. Jon felt sick.

* * *

Pam clung to the door of the taxi as it broke the speed limit. She had dropped her purse somewhere, and she didn't have her coat. She had gotten past the door guards with a little trouble. There were two more men on the ground without pulses in that mansion. But she couldn't think about those things now. She had to get to Arkham Asylum, and she had to find that canister.

_Okay,_ she thought, taking a deep, calming breath. _Let me recap what I know, and what I've guessed. It's going to take a few more minutes to reach the bridges anyway._

Number one: She and Jon had strengthened a toxin that caused panic and hallucinations in its victims. That toxin was going to be released into the air of Gotham, making the city 'tear itself apart through fear.'

Number two: Jon had a dual personality that might be at fault here. She wished she could just blame 'Scarecrow.' But she didn't know that for certain. _You can't count on that, Pam,_ she told herself.

Number Three: Jon may or may not have told her where the antidote was hidden.

Number Four: Slightly less important but equally as shocking; she had killed a man. Actually, three men. She felt nauseous, and hoped that she wouldn't throw up.

Number Five: Jon didn't engineer this plan. She felt slightly better at that.

She couldn't think of any more numbers, because they were at the bridges.

She opened the door and got out of the taxi, ignoring the cabbie's calls for his money. She had paid him earlier; that was enough. Picking up her skirt and running toward the mass of people, she asked a policeman, "What's going on?"

"Some idiot blew a hole in Arkham Asylum; the inmates are loose!"

_That_ threw a monkey wrench in her plans. She began to run toward the bridges again. Contrary to popular belief, it was possible to run in high heels. You just had to put all of your weight on the balls of your feet and not let the heels touch the ground. Uncomfortable, but she could do it.

They weren't just letting ordinary everyday citizens cross the bridges into the Narrows with homicidal maniacs loose. There was a barricade, and a policeman was waving certain people through and keeping others back. Taking a deep breath, Pamela stopped running but kept up a brisk, no-nonsense pace, arranged her hair, and tried not to look out of breath. As she got closer, a woman a ways in front of her was speaking sharply to the cop. "I am a Gotham City District Attorney; let me pass," she snapped. The man sighed and waved her through.

Pam hurried closer and before the cop could say anything, she announced, "I'm with _her,"_ pointing to the dark-haired woman and walking past him before he could stop her. He stared after her with an open mouth, but didn't call for her to stop. _Guess they don't see many evening gowns down here,_ Pam thought, a little amused even now. But she had to get across the bridges. Then to Arkham Asylum, all the while avoiding the insane mass murderers in those cute little orange jumpsuits. _Why_ orange?_ There are so many other colors,_ she thought to herself as she finally reached the other side of the bridge. A SWAT truck rumbled past her, but she ignored it, like she ignored the goose bumps on her arms. Harley would tell her that her mind was finding little things to occupy itself with so that she wouldn't relive kissing all those men and go off her rocker.

But she was already off her rocker. She was walking into the Narrows in a green evening gown and heels –strike that, she had just broken one; she yanked the shoes off her feet and tossed them aside, picking up her pace. Where was she? Oh yes, _barefoot_, with no defense except her toxic lips, up against escaped criminals and racing the clock to get to the antidote of Jon's fear toxin before the whole city got sprayed with it.

Where was Jon, by the way?

And what would she do with this toxin once she found it?

She guessed she'd figure that out once she had it.

**Reviews are love 3**


	13. 13:13

**AN: Sorry this took so long. School said, YOU SHALL NOT PASS. and I'm attempting to prove it wrong. Yeah. BUT LAST CHAPTER! YAY! Enjoy :D**

"And now these three remain: 

faith, hope, and love. 

But the greatest of these is love."

_~1 Corinthians 13:13_

It was chaotic. Police were everywhere, cuffing anyone who was wearing orange or who looked dangerous, and ordinary citizens were freaking out. And then there was her. Pam tried to avoid police officers that would probably tell her to get off the island. As a result, she ran down alleys. And alleys weren't the best place to be in the Narrows. Nevertheless, she had made it almost to Arkham without incident.

And then a manhole cover flew up two feet from her. It belched a white, thick, bitter gas that quickly spread throughout the air like fog. _No!_ Pamela thought,coughing on the substance,_ I'm too late!_ Screams quickly began to fill the air as other manhole covers shot up and spread the substance. A woman ran past her, chased by a man holding a pipe, yelling something Pam couldn't make out. As she ran on, she saw people savagely lashing out at anything and everything.

_Why am I not affected? _She wondered to herself. _Am I somehow immune, as well as poisonous?_ Pamela didn't have much time to think about this, however; a man bearing a cudgel tried to brain her.

"I don't have _time_ for this!" she hissed angrily. Dodging agilely, she kicked out with her foot into his gut. All the air whooshed out of him. She ran, her emerald skirts fluttering after her in the dark night.

Arkham's gates were wide open, and she could hardly miss the gaping hole in the side of the building. She hoisted her skirt above her knees and climbed through it, feeling the brick scrape her bare feet. She could only imagine how dirty they must be. The stairwell was dark and dank. _Just the sort of place I want to be alone at night, _Pam thought sarcastically. _Good thing none of the inmates are here anymore._

* * *

Scarecrow strode down the street, mask on, straightjacket flapping. He wasn't rational, not even close, but he had a malicious intent about him. He was going to taste this fear in the air, take in the aroma. His creation had transformed the Narrows into something… fearsome. He smiled, a feral, sadistic smile.

Jon wanted to beat his hypothetical head against the mental wall.

**DoN'T wOrRyyy JoNNnny boYYyyYy…ThEre'S NOthInG to FeeEeaR…** Scarecrow cackled.

_And _that_ makes me feel _so_ much better. _Jon dug his psychic fingers into the wall and started pulling away at it in earnest.

A horse neighed in fear as a man attacked its rider. Scarecrow laughed as the mounted police officer fell from the saddle, his foot tangled in the stirrup. A crazed, panicked man in bright orange proceeded to beat him to death.

And then Scarecrow kicked him in the face and growled like the monster he was, making the man scream and run in fear.  
**A HoRrrse iS a hOrrrsE Of CouRrrsE, oF cOurRrSe…** Scarecrow mumbled to himself as he swung up into the saddle with ease, using Jon's knowledge from his childhood farm days. The black horse snorted and shied uneasily; it could smell the blood in the air, and its dead rider was still dangling from the saddle. Scarecrow kicked the horse, urging him ahead. The hooves clip-clopped through the white mist bringing him ever closer to his quarry.

"Nobody's gonna hurt you," a frantic and determined brown haired woman told a child. Rachel Dawes. An idealist, a believer in false hope, she was wrong. Scarecrow would rectify that.

"Of _course _they are!" he growled, the respirator distorting his voice.

"Crane?" she exclaimed, surprised and frightened, but angry as well.

"No!" he yelled, holding up a finger. "_Scare_crow!" He corrected.

The woman yanked on the child's arm and ran. Scarecrow gleefully urged the horse after them. 

_They aren't scared of you! _Jon said._ I made this toxin! They're scared of whatever their minds are showing them!_

**No!** Scarecrow howled.

The fog cleared, and the alter ego could see again through the holes in the burlap mask. "There you are!" He exclaimed, spying Rachel Dawes and the boy that was clinging to her. "There is nothing to f_ear _–" The horse breathed orange tongues of fire out of its mouth and reared; an illusion, but very terrifying – "but fear _him_self! I am here to help you-uuuwwwwaaaahhhhh!" His last word turned into a wail as the dart-like projectiles of a Taser came into contact with his face. 

Somewhere in Jonathan Crane's brain, he knew that Tasers primarily function by creating neuromuscular incapacitation. Laymen's terms translates this to mean that the Taser interrupts the ability of the brain to control the muscles in the body so that the subject becomes immediately incapacitated.

It also meant that Scarecrow did not have control anymore. But then, neither did Jon. He could feel the horse moving away, he could hear himself scream, but the current still ran through him. But then, suddenly, the electricity was shut off, and the pain was gone. The mental wall was no longer there. Jon shot to the forefront and ripped off his mask.

But he hadn't reckoned on his fear gas still being in the air.

* * *

Pamela wondered, every once in a while, if life had meaning. She wasn't much of a philosophical person. That was Harley's cup of tea. But every so often, she'd dive into deeper meanings and purpose. And she wondered now: was life like a dance? Did it have steps, rules to guide where you stepped? Was there someone upstairs orchestrating events? Could someone honestly hope for a brighter tomorrow? Or was the world random, chaotic, unfair, and unrelenting in its desire to pound its residents into the pavement? Did fate decide the turn of the cards? Was everything chance, like the flip of a coin?

And she decided, as she pulled open the desk of Dr. Jonathan Crane and pulled out a blue canister, that there was hope. There had to be hope. You had to have faith. If the world was unfair, that in its self was hope. 'Unfair' meant that there was a higher standard that people were supposed to live up to. They usually didn't, but there was still that faith in humanity, that somewhere, someone would do the right thing. Someone had put that standard into existence. Someone who was _all about_ hope and faith. And she'd cling to that belief with all she had in her, because really, if that wasn't true, why live at all?

People put their lives on the line daily –firemen, policemen, soldiers, all of them –for hope that tomorrow would be better than today, in faith that the world would be preserved for future generations. Life wasn't worth living if you didn't have something to live _for._ And to die for. It was _worth_ it.

_I need to write this down,_ Pamela thought._ Harley would love it._

And then the deep thoughts ended, because some crazy idiot with a gun was standing in front of the huge hole in the wall –her exit. She leapt over the railing, her dress billowing around her as bullets spewed from the muzzle of the gun. None of the bullets hit her, thank goodness. It was a revolver –six shots, ideally. Unless it was a special model; then it might have ten rounds or more. Four bullets were gone. Two more to go.

Pamela ducked under the stairwell as another bullet whizzed by her.

"Come out, monster!" the man called. He was under the influence of the fear gas. Thankfully, illusions are hard to hit.

Ripping a swath of material from her skirt, Pam balled it up and tossed it out into the gunman's line of sight. The movement of the fluttering fabric, combined with the fear gas distortion, made him shoot off his last bullet. She could hear the gun click as he tried to fire again. No telling what he saw, but he was out of bullets.

_Best to go now, _she told herself. _Before he can reload, if he has more bullets_. Dashing out from under the stairwell, she aimed a well-placed kick at the man's kneecap. The force of her kick made the man's knee lock up, and he lost his balance. Her fist connected with his jaw and he was down. She was out of the gaping opening, wringing a stinging hand and painful toes, running down an alley. She had to find Jon! This island was only so big. She could do it. Couldn't she?

But as it turned out, _he _found_ her._

* * *

Pain was still there –the barbed Tasers had ripped out chunks of his skin once his mask had come off, but things had distorted, twisted. Things were bobbing and contorting around him; illusions were taking over. He knew that he was astride the horse, he still had a grip on the reins, and his mask was in his hand, but other than that, he had lost all sense of direction, other than the fact he was leaning backwards, in danger of falling off.

Something was grabbing his leg, pulling on him –red turned into green, vines came at him, wrapping around him, yanking. This plant was going to drag him off the horse and kill him! He lashed out, striking it. The vines weakened, their tendrils receding slightly. He grabbed it by the throat –did plants have throats? The plant shrieked and punched him.

How did a plant shriek and punch?

_Fear gas…_ he thought to himself,struggling to keep a grip on reality. _Illusions. Don't panic. Think…_

"I _tried _to get you off the stupid horse, but _fine,_ I'll spray you up there. If it gets into your eyes, don't blame me," an irate female voice snapped.

He didn't have time to think about that because a second later he got a face full of gas. He hacked and coughed, but it was easier to take than the regular air around him.

And then something very strange but extremely remarkable happened.

He closed his eyes, and he felt like dehydrated fruit that had suddenly been pumped full of water. The damaged portions of his mind affected by the fear toxin were being revitalized, healed, both Jon and Scarecrow.

And then they merged back together.

He opened his eyes and remembered who he was, and more importantly, who the woman was beside his horse. He leaned sideways and nearly fell out of the saddle, but his feet touched the ground, and another set of hands reached out to steady him.

"Jon?"

Blinking blue eyes, he stared at the green eyed, redheaded woman in front of him. "Thank you, Dr. Isley," he said slowly.

Her brow wrinkled. "Jon, are you –?"

"All right?" he finished. "Yes, Pamela. For the first time in months, I am all right." She smiled, a relieved, tired smile. And then he took a glance at what she was wearing. A slightly dirty, ripped, green dress that she looked spectacular in, even with bare feet. "Pamela?" he said with a smile. "I like the dress."

She beamed at him and threw her arms around him in a hug. He froze for a few seconds but then put his arms around her as well. "I'm glad," she whispered, and then pulled back in concern. "Jon, your face!" she exclaimed, reaching up to touch the bloody spots on his forehead and cheek.

He winced. "Taser," he said shortly. "Pam, did I…" he trailed off, staring at her neck. A handprint was beginning to show.  
"You were poisoned," she said. "I forgive you. Jon, is Scarecrow back under control now?" She was worried, afraid for him. No one had ever been afraid _for_ him; it had always been _of_ him. That meant a whole lot to him.

"Scarecrow is gone, Pam," he said. "I'm one person again. Although…" he put a hand to his head. "Having two sets of memories for a two month period is a bit…disorienting."

She smiled and hugged him again.

* * *

The screams and howls were getting closer. "We should get out of here," Pam said, pulling on his arm.

He shucked off the straightjacket and looked around with the mysterious blue glint in his eye that she hadn't seen since before she left for Egypt. "We could always take the horse," he speculated.

"And ride off into the sunset?" she laughed. Happiness must make her giddy; she didn't normally act like this! But what was normal about this whole situation?

"More like sunrise," he said dryly. "But if that's what you want," he shrugged. "Sure."

She stared at him, watching his face. She had thought for a while that Jon was the good guy and Scarecrow was the bad guy. But now…she could see that they were just two different aspects of his personality. Jon was the sweet, caring, protective person she had thought she loved. But this other aspect of his personality…this mysterious, enigmatic side…was the side that had so intrigued her on their first few meetings. This was the _real _Dr. Jonathan Crane, with both sides of his personality intact.

She had thought she loved him before. She loved him even more now.

"Okay," she said at last. "Let's get out of here before the crazies come back." He gave her a leg up onto the horse and swung up behind her, wrapping his arms around her to keep her safe. This strange feeling welling up in her heart was like a dam overflowing; how could she keep it in much longer?

"You've got a lot of questions to answer, Jonathan Crane," she told him. "Just what exactly were you doing here?"

He laughed a little. "I'll tell you once I sort out what memory goes where. But I've got a question for you, Pamela."

"What?" she asked, twisting around to see his face.

"What does the 'L' stand for?"

She gave him a strange look.

"Dr. Pamela L. Isley," he explained. "What does the 'L' stand for?"

"Lillian," she said softly.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat and guiding them through the foggy, dark streets, "Both sets of my memories agree on something, and I think I should tell you about it."

"Okay. What is it?" she asked, remembering that the whole Jonathan was usually cool and taciturn most of the time.

"I think that…I love you, Pamela Lillian Isley," he said, blinking blue eyes.

She realized that she had no fear of overflowing with love; if she ever got low, he could fill her up again. "_Both _of you?" she got out finally.

"Part of it was as a friend, intellectually, caring about you…" his mouth twisted. "The other part was more…carnal desires. But I feel them both. If you don't reciprocate my feelings, I understand, but I felt I should –"

She blushed. "Jon…shut up. I love you too." And she kissed him on the mouth, wrapped in his arms, riding a black stallion into the foggy night.

_"Like a lily among the thorns is my darling among the maidens."_ Song of Solomon 2:1

**AN: YAY! I love happy endings! (note title reference ^^) Don't worry, there WILL BE A SEQUEL! it'll just take a while coming, because i have to write it. so I guess if youw ant to read it, you'll just have to author alert me and learn the value of patience. Thanks SO MUCH to all the reviewers/alerters/favoriters! YOU ROCK!**

**And as always, Reviews are Love 3 XD also it might make me work harder on the sequel... ;) we'll see. ~~MBE  
**


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